


Working Girl

by FistfulofDollars



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: (Some) Smut, Baby Yoda in the room, Daddy Mando is trying his best okay, F/M, Forced Prostitution, He's in his little cradle pod all closed up, Mentions of Blood, Minor Character Death, Mostly plot tho, Prostitution, Violence and other Mando-related murders, You don't have a choice/have to say yes to anything, but still feel like that needs a tag, descriptions of disassociating & panic & anxiety, descriptions of past sexual violence against you, mentions of past violence against you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:09:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 51,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21889465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FistfulofDollars/pseuds/FistfulofDollars
Summary: An orphaned prostitute, on a planet far from her home, has given up hoping for a better life until one of her clients makes a very unusual request of her.Side note: I know nothing about Star Wars so please comment me if I make any grievous mistakes so I can correct them.
Relationships: The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Reader, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/You
Comments: 80
Kudos: 836





	1. Babysitting

Chapter 1

There is very little natural light on this side of the planet. When the sun comes up every 50 hours or so, it will peek across the buildings like a timid animal for 15 minutes and then slip back down as though it doesn’t like what it sees. To compensate, artificial light is everywhere, laying along the ground on either side of the packed-tar street and hanging on crisscrossed wires above it. They hang off the buildings and shine out of the windows like searchlights. It gives the whole city a seedy, fluorescent glow that keeps the secrets of the peaceful homebody as well as the violent criminal. 

You’re looking out your window now. It’s open, the cool night air battling against the warmth of your small room and it’s the perfect mix between safety and freedom to make you feel nothing at all. Your room is ten stories up from the ground, but still only half the height of the building, and around you, other similar structures tower even higher. Pastel and yellowed lights pour out of all of them, and the moving shadows they create give life to the city in a way they couldn’t under the light of the sun. 

Mentally, you’re drifting. Trying to think of nothing at all as you sit and watch. Whether it’s a different moment now than when you first sat down, or the same one, is unimportant. What’s important is that you’re gone. Scattered in pieces across the galaxy. These pieces of you are free and that’s all that matters. Time is gone, but you know there will come a moment when the door across the room from the window will open. A figure will enter, the bed will move, and the ceiling will blur. It would hurt if you had a body, but you are nothing and you will feel nothing. You are the stars, blocked and distorted by the city lights below. There, always present, but unseen, unknowable and unconcerned with all that goes on below them. 

The door does open and a figure does enter. You look over from your place at the window. Even after all the time you spent to drift far away, you still feel a tiny pang knowing you have to leave the cool comfort of the window seat and replace it with the constricting warmth of the bed. Before the thought can do any real damage, you imagine it as a physical object, a spiky ball that you quickly lock away in a box and then push that box away to the back of your mind where it can’t hurt you. You are above and away from all the things that can hurt you.

As you climb down from the window sill and fall on to the bed, the stranger in your room fiddles with a box by the door. The set-up is simple enough so you don’t offer any instruction. An amount of time is chosen, the cost, in credits, is specified and once the credits are paid the door to the room is locked and whatever happens after that…happens.

Instead of falling in to the trap of wondering what might happen, you let your mind wander. The figure is wearing head-to-toe armor. A Mandalorian’s. An oddity. Probably stolen. On his back is a rifle, over-sized and so covered in dirt and dust the only flecks of silver to peek through are on the trigger. He’s brought some type of luggage with him. A hovering pod about three feet long, shaped like an egg and pushed in to the corner of the room for safe-keeping. It’s sealed up tight with a small keypad on front. There’s no point worrying about what’s inside it. If it was something awful and that something awful was going to be used then that would happen, nothing could stop it from happening, and in some other time it had already happened and you were already through with it, sitting on your window sill with the cool air again. 

The swish of the door lock engaging tells you that he’s paid to management’s satisfaction, and now you are one step closer to being alone again. Instead of opening the pod, the armored figure sits down on the side of the bed and lets out what sounds like a sigh. You let you loose body roll over in to the depression his makes until you’re almost touching, but he makes no move to reach out so you just stare at your reflection in the polished helmet. You are thousands of parsecs away watching the snow fall in the yard of your childhood home. It’s a game you like to play. In this game you only get to be safe and happy at home if you can make the girl on the bed say and do the right things. If the girl on the bed says and does all the right things, then no one will disturb her in her mind-home, but if she says the wrong thing, misses a cue or drifts too far away, then…things happen. Usually painful things that make management yell about loosing business, and the doctors hired to fix the things cluck their tongues disapprovingly. 

It’s okay though. You know all the rules to this game now, and those things almost never happen anymore. In one side of your mind you are watching the snow and with the other you ask out loud, “How are you feeling tonight?” A default sentence. You can think of dozens of them without concentrating too hard. 

“I’m fine.” A pause. If he asks it back then he’s a talker and you’ll have to pull more sentences out of your foggy mind. You hope he doesn’t. “I’m going to keep my armor on.”  
You feel the same small surprise as when you first saw the armor. Perhaps he was a real Mandalorian after all. After your own parent’s deaths, and in your early days here, you had thought about these stories a lot. When things got so bad you thought you couldn’t stand it anymore, you dreamed that they would come and take you away. That they would train you in the ways of the warrior and teach you how to kill disgusting men instead of fuck them, but as you got older, they never came and eventually you gave up on dreaming about it altogether. 

On the surface you are still playing the game though so you say, “Sure thing baby, whatever you want.”

“Just keep your hands on the bed.” Easy. You dig your hands in to the comforter below you. You were already sweating a little and letting your legs fall open feels nice. You’re not wearing much, but the heat pumped in to the room was always too high. There were no controls for it. It just was what it was like everything else that happened here. You close your eyes and the artificial light becomes like the sun, shining through your eyelids and bathing you in warmth that was easier to take than the cloying air of the heater.   
Your feelings are distant, you’re lost in a happy dream, seeing your childhood as though it was happening right now, but not so distant that you aren’t aware of his gloved hands on you. They start at your knees and then glide up past your thighs to grab the waistband of your silk shorts, and he pulls them off in one swift motion. It’s obvious you’re weightless to him, one moment you’re on your back, hands at your sides and eyes closed, and the next he’s flipped you over on to your stomach. Your hands have to come up to your head, so you can rest your weight on your forearms, and keep from suffocating against the pillow as he pulls your hips up. 

He doesn’t bother removing your top. It’s also silk and in this new angle it falls down your back and up past your breasts anyways. He stops touching you and you can hear him undoing the clasps on his belt and stripping off whatever armor he needs to to accomplish what he wants. The pillow below you smells like flowers, none grow here of course so like everything else on this planet the smell is artificial, but it was still comforting. You’re smelling the flowers and keeping your hands on the bed and he doesn’t seem to need anything else from you. You don’t want to have to feel what comes next, shouldn’t have to, but thoughts like that only leave you bitter, and that only makes you sad. It’s better to feel nothing at all. 

Instead of what you were expecting though, the next time he touches you it’s with his bare finger. He’s not being coy or teasing you or anything else you would have to pretend to giggle or squirm at. He just presses it against your pussy firmly and pushes it in to you. The noises are second nature, waiting to be pulled out of your throat as though you’ve been conditioned to make them. And you have of course. They may not teach shooting here, but they do teach you how to moan and sign and curse like you’re having a good time. You draw in a breath to moan, but before you can let it out, the hand that’s not inside you comes from nowhere, grabs your hair, and pushes your face down in the pillow with enough force it becomes difficult to breathe. He shushes you in the same baritone he used when he told you to keep your hands on the bed. 

“Try to stay quiet.” Another easy request. Maybe the Mandalorian did hear your prayers, but instead of coming to spirit you away, they sent one of their own to make it easier on you just for one night.

His hand disappears from the back of your head before lack of air becomes a problem, and with his other hand he slides another finger in to you while you lift your head to breathe as quietly as you can. There’s no discomfort, no demands you can’t easily meet. You let your head fall on to the pillow again and will yourself to be quiet as his fingers continue their steady movement inside of you. You go back to the snow, back to the frozen lake and the birds that would fly overhead in flocks. Separated from your room, the city and the horrible fluorescent lights, what he’s doing begins to feel good. Your knees and elbows are aching, and the profound discomfort of being exposed like this to another stranger night after night can never be fully pushed out of your mind, but he’s moving slowly and curling his fingers. When his fingers sink all the way in to you, his thumb presses against your other hole and makes you feel something unusual in your stomach. Maybe if he hadn’t told you to be quiet not all of your moans would be for show. 

It isn’t bad, it’s okay, and time slips away from you easily even though you know what’s coming next will be more demanding than his fingers. For a little while at least there’s no sounds in the room but his breathing. It should sound more mechanical coming out of his helmet, but there’s a hitching, human quality that can’t be completely covered by the metal. Eventually there’s new sounds. His steady rhythm works on your body and now you can both hear the wet sounds of his fingers as they slide in to you, and there’s also the soft slapping sound of his other hand against his skin as he pleasures himself.

Following cues known only to himself, he pulls his fingers out and flips you over again like you’re just another feather pillow on the bed. You realize that you’ve let yourself become too comfortable. Let your mind focus too much on the way he was making you feel, and now you’re really here, present, laying with your legs spread and no where to go. You feel like you’re seeing him for the first time. Up close he looks at least six feet tall even on his knees, and his armor, an oddity before, looks so real now. Solid, silver and covered in angles and hard edges that are all designed for combat. His helmet is overwhelming this close. The black glass looks down at you expressionlessly, and in the fabric between his chest plate and shoulder has a crusted, dark stain on it that you can’t help but think is blood. 

As if sensing your fear and wanting to confirm it, his hand moves so fast toward your face you’re certain he’s going to strike you. You flinch back instinctively, but know better than to take your hands off the bed after he told you explicitly not to. The blow you’re expecting never lands, and after a moment you cautiously open one of your eyes to peek at what he’s doing. Instead of a fist, his hand is open and cupped next to your head. Without his glove you can see that his skin is brown and his hand is shaped just like yours only larger and calloused. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says and the second he speaks you feel more relaxed. His voice softens the armor in a way his movements don’t. That, combined with his bare hand and continued panting, remind you he’s human. “I just want you to spit.”

You look at his cupped palm and then back up towards his face, and feel yourself breaking out in to a smile. It’s from relief, not amusement, but it still feels good and you lean over and spit for him without embarrassment. 

“Thank you.” He says, and it would have been sweet but he’s rubbing your spit over his dick and you’re getting your first look at it. The gentle stretch of his fingers now seems like a joke. His own fist is barely covering half the length and it’s obvious how hard he is; leaking on to his fingers and if he wasn’t so big you would have thought the spit was unnecessary. “Are you ready?”

It’s a question you’re only allowed to give one answer to, but you nod for his benefit anyways. He wraps one of his arms under your waist and pulls your hips up. His other hand presses in to the bed near your head, and now his helmet is so close you can hear his labored breathing through the modulator and, much quieter, you can hear it unfiltered huffing out from the space under the helmet. 

He presses against you, but the angle is wrong and instead of his dick, his chest armor presses against your breasts all cold steel and hard edges. It makes you gasp. Right next to your ear the Mandalorian swears harshly and does his best to readjust, but then the leg guard is pressing in to your thigh painfully and you can’t help the whimper that escapes you. He moves to try another position, but you can’t imagine how that’s going to help.

“Wait,” you say quietly, still mindful of the rules, but his whole body goes still when he hears your voice. “Let me help.” You tentatively lift your hand off the covers, it feels cramped after holding on so tightly, and you’re ready to put it back down if he gets angry.

“Okay.” The helmet tips down in a nod, so you reach between his chest plate and your stomach until your hand finds his dick. It’s still slick and hard, and the second your hand wraps around it he lets out a deep groan louder than any noise either of you had made yet. As soon as he makes the noise, he looks over his shoulder towards the back of the room reflexively but there’s nothing there. He waits, completely still, for another moment and then turns back to you pressing his hips in to your fist. You squeeze your hand, not because you have to, but because you want to see if you can make him make that sound again. Instead, he swears and thrusts his hips forward again harder this time. Your wrist feels like paper against his muscles and the weight of his armor. The hand supporting your hips hasn’t wavered this whole time, and when you lift your legs up to wrap around him, he holds you up effortlessly. 

This time when he leans his his body into yours, you guide him to the right place. You use your fingers to spread yourself, and when it lines up right and he’s finally in you both gasp. He doesn’t even attempt to go slow as you do your best to adjust, but judging by the way he’s gasping and pressing his helmet in to your shoulder, he can’t help it. You pull your hand out from between you and he takes advantage of the new space to push all the way in. The pressure of his helmet against you is hard enough to hurt, but constant enough to lessen the discomfort, and the sounds he’s making right next to your ear are more than worth it. You’re starting to feel a connection to this awkward Mandalorian and his over-sized armor that’s clearly come in the way of him doing this very often. 

His thrusts are hard and there’s little rhythm to them. Every time he pulls out a little he immediately slams back in, so deep you want to make noise, any noise, but you remember that blood stain and stop yourself. You bring the hand that had touched him up to cover your mouth. His thigh armor is digging in to your legs so you spread them wider, trying to fit all of his bulky form between them. The new angle is magic. You feel it and you know he feels it too. He’s groaning again, just as loud as the first time, but he doesn’t stop and he doesn’t turn around again. He just keeps thrusting in to you oblivious of anything else. It was too much, too fast, and every time he fills you there’s a sharp, urgent pain that makes your eyes water, but he doesn’t slow down and there’s no hope of pushing him off you. You don’t even know if you would if you could. Instead you do your best to relax, to spread your legs even wider and angle your hips until you feel him push in to you deeper, until his cock is pressing against the inside of you like it belongs there. His thrusts are slamming your bed in to the wall. You can feel your headboard banging against the thick steel, but you can barely hear it over the noise he’s making. Grunts and gasps and strings of words in languages you don’t understand. 

He doesn’t last much longer, letting out one last achingly vulnerable cry before you can feel him coming inside you. For a moment everything in the room is still. You can feel the hand holding your hips finally start to tremble, and he pulls out much slower than he pushed in, gently lowering you back on to the bed. 

It’s done now. It had been different, a little sweeter, than usual, but it was done now. He would wash in the restroom, gather his things and then leave, and you can go back to your window. Back to watching and separating. You aren’t ready to move yet, so you look through the window from your vantage on the bed and listen to him re-buckle his belts and lift his rifle from where he had leaned it against the wall. He doesn’t even bother washing up. Then you hear him open the pod he brought with him and feel your body tense. You had forgotten about the pod and its unknown contents, and you suddenly realize how foolish you were to think this was over. 

Your expectations are vague and a little fearful, it might be whips or chains or something worse. He’s not speaking though, and the suspense becomes too much to bear so you sit up. Nothing in the world could have prepared you for what you see. For a second your mind can’t comprehend what your eyes are showing it, and you just stare unable to make sense of it. 

The Mandalorian is standing over the cradle, because now that the pod is open that’s clearly what it is, he’s holding out his hand, once again covered by his glove, and from inside the cradle a tiny green hand is reaching out to him too. The longer you look the easier it is to comprehend what you’re seeing. There’s a creature inside, tiny and bundled in blankets, it isn’t from any species you recognize. It has ears twice as large as its head, which is dominated by two, round eyes that stare at the Mandalorian intently. 

A foundling, you think, he brought a foundling here and left them in the corner of the room while the two of you did your business like it was another one of his rifles. The scene becomes more surreal as the baby reaches out both hands and coos, and the Mandalorian sighs, lifting it out of the crib to cradle in his arms. 

After a minute or two of fussing over it, he finally turns to look back at you. The baby follows his gaze and now they’re both looking at you, and you have no idea what they’re seeing in your face but unadulterated surprise seems the most likely. After a few moments of silence, the Mandalorian says, 

“Can you watch him for a few hours? I have to go do a job.” It’s nonsense. You try to play the words over again in your head but you’re still too shocked to understand them, let alone answer. When your silence doesn’t break, he adds, “I’ll give you credits for the door lock. Four hours should be long enough.”

You slowly getting over your surprise and catching up; picking out the important parts and putting them in order: a child, watch him, a job, credits for the door lock. You nod and hear yourself say, “Yes I can watch them.” The truth is you want to watch them. Now that your eyes have met theirs, you want to hold them and comfort them and if you’re very lucky have them reach out to you the same way they reached out to the Mandalorian. You’re almost certain it’s relief you can see in the shift of his shoulder pauldrons as you hold out your arms for the child. 

“Thank you.” He says while he hands the small bundle over. The child looks up at him and makes another small noise. “I know,” he says, “but you’ll be safe here and I’ll be back soon.” There’s no indication of whether the child understands him or not, but it doesn’t coo again and it settles in to your arms without a fuss as the Mandalorian reaches in to a pocket mostly obscured by his chest plate and pulls out a small pouch. He turns the bag over on the edge of the bed and a handful of imperial credits fall out. 

“Lock the door as soon as I leave. Four hours will be plenty. Don’t answer the door for anyone but me. Do you understand?” He sounds serious so you tear your eyes away from the baby who is looking up at you sleepily, it’s big round eyes fighting to stay open, and look up at him and nod. 

“Yes, I understand. Four hours. Don’t answer the door for anyone but you.” He looks at the two of you for a moment like he’s going to say more, but then turns silently to the door, unlocks it from the keypad, and exits with a swish of his cloak. You stand up as soon as he’s gone and, with the child in one arm, you select the time and feed the credits in to the box with the other. The door lock engages and the two of you are left alone with nothing but hope that the armored man will return. 

In all the years since you lost your parents in the docking bay accident and, without any other guardians to take you in, were sold to the current management here, you’ve never once been left alone with the door locked. You’re not technically alone now, but the child in your arms is as non-threatening a being as they come. It’s reaching out now and pressing its tiny hands to the blue folds of your silk shirt then watching intently as it pulls away and the fabric ripples and shines in the light above you. 

Suddenly it hits you that you still aren’t wearing pants and there’s a child in your arms and even in the uncomfortable heat of the room you can feel a slight chill of the Mandalorian’s cum running down and drying against your thighs. The rush of everything you’re feeling is overwhelming and for the first time it’s mostly good: the safety of the door lock, the relief of the pod containing something sweet and pure instead of dangerous and cruel, the gentle tug you feel in your heart looking down at the child and having it look up at you. It’s a far cry from your usual days spent waiting and fucking, waiting and fucking. 

First, you set the child down on the bed and it practically disappears in to the feathery pillows and blankets. You push everything on to the bed together until it makes a round nest around the kid and you ask it to please stay put. It doesn’t answer but it does close its eyes and sink down and smack its lips sleepily, which seems like a good sign. You open the smaller door that leads to the bathroom and leave it open while you pull your shirt off and clean your body under the warm spray of the refresher. You can’t go more than a few seconds without glancing out at the baby to make sure it’s okay, but it doesn’t move except to turn its head and look out at the lights reflecting off the window like you had been when you were laying there. Once you’re clean and the warm air has dried everything but the thickest part of your hair, you step out of the bathroom and kneel by the bed where a compartment in its frame hides your clothes. The contents have been jostled by the recent activity on the bed, but they’re brought in by a droid once a week while the soiled ones are taken away so you didn’t choose any of them yourself and you don’t much care what happens to them. 

The baby has maneuvered itself over the blanket nest and is looking down at you over the side of the bed. 

“What do you think?” You ask, and its ears twitch a little at the sound of your voice. “How about this?” The item on top is a red dress that looks like it would barely cover the curve of your butt and it’s made of a stiff, scaly material that was almost certainly pulled off of a creature that had been alive at some point. You hold it out to the kid but they don’t react so you toss it aside where it joins your silk shorts on the floor. The two of you do this ritual a few more times until the pile on the floor is larger than what’s left in the drawer. The child peeks and leans over the bed every time you reach to grab something new like it’s excited to see what’s going to come next, and the plush carpet feels nice on your bare legs, and the safety of the door lock has temporarily blocked out an anxiety you hadn’t realized was plaguing you so intensely until it was gone. The experience was better than anything that had happened to you in the past ten years. As soon as you thought that, your mind reminded you that it was going to end. and you whip around so suddenly the baby makes a startled noise and pulls back from the edge of the bed. The box by the door reads 3:24 and you feel your chest loosen. That’s enough time, it has to be enough time, you can fit a lifetime of happy memories like this one in to 3 hours and 24 minutes. Then, when you need to go somewhere else, to escape this room and whatever is happening to the girl inside it, you can think of this and drift away.

The child is looking down at you more timidly than before and the slight droop of its ears makes it seem like it’s sharing in your sad thoughts, so you reach in to the drawer and pull out a piece you’ve been saving because you know it will catch their eye. It’s a singlet, tank top on top and shorts on the bottom, and it’s made from a sheer, gauzy fabric that’s covered in golden metallic flakes so it catches and reflects the light in a thousand different directions. The reaction is immediate. The kid’s eyes grow wide and light up, and they reach their tiny hands out to touch it. You let them run their hands over it for several minutes before pulling it away and sliding it up your legs, pulling the thin straps over your shoulders. You do a spin and the child giggles with delight. It’s pure bliss. 

The only item left in the drawer now is a pink, feathered boa. You pull it out and toss it up in to the air and you both watch it drift back down. Between the feathers and the fabric, you’re wearing the kid is entranced. The two of you sit on the bed and play for an eternity. The feathers become a snake in your hands, then a bird, you tell stories and the child watches it all like he’s been trapped without entertainment as long as you have. Eventually though he starts to fidget and look around the room more often. The door timer now reads 1:41 and you have no idea what you’re going to do when the Mandalorian comes back and leaves you all alone again, but you also have no idea what you would do if he doesn’t come back. You’ve never had so much as a pet and you’re feeling the first pangs of uncertainty trying to think of what to do next.

You have no idea what their species is, let alone what they might eat, but there’s a tray of your leftover food on a little table in the far side of the room by the pod the child came in on, and you grab it and bring it over in case there’s anything the little guy wanted. It was the right thing to do apparently, because the second you bring it over, they start picking through it and eventually settle on several slices of meat. They swallow the pieces whole. You are waiting tensely for a moment to see if they start coughing or choking or a hundred other things that might happen, but nothing does. Your worry is rewarded with a contented smile and large yawn. It’s too much to bear, but you bear it. With no clear idea that you’re going to, you scoop the child in your arms and carry it over to your window spot. Together the two of you watch the night go on, and for once, you’re not alone in your isolation. 

It doesn’t matter how long you’ve been sitting here; it could never be enough. The child’s breathing becomes steady as they fall asleep in your arms, and the tiny but persuasive thought that you won’t survive giving the child back enters your mind. That the heartbreak of it will kill you, and if it doesn’t, perhaps the Mandalorian will do it for you. If you ask nicely. 

The door timer reads 0:24 when a knock comes. It’s firm and demands an answer. You don’t delay, don’t even consider delaying, the thought is too tempting. You wouldn’t be able to resist and don’t want to find out what the armored man would do if you try and run out the clock. There’s a view screen function on the door, and you open it up half-hoping that it won’t be him, that you’ll get just a little more time, but of course it is him. It’s not like you’re expecting other guests when outside the room it must be clearly indicated that the door is locked. 

The armor looks no less intimidating through the screen and you disengage the door lock before he has to knock again. The door slides open while you step back so he can come in, as soon as he does the door slides closed behind him. He looks more tense than when he left you, and there’s a tear in his padded tunic just below the left pauldron that you don’t think was there before. He holds out his hands for the child, and you have to hold back tears as you give them a tiny kiss on the head and pass them back over. He places the kid gently in the cradle and closes it up. 

“Thank you.” He says while pushing a button hidden in the armor on his wrist and some mechanism in the pod whirs to life. It’s easier now that they aren’t in your arms anymore. It makes the last few hours feel like a dream. The memories are still there though, and as soon as the Mandalorian leaves, you’ll be able to sit at your window and think of them. Until the next customer comes along of course. 

The Mandalorian isn’t leaving though. He’s looking down at you like he’s considering having another round before he leaves this planet for better places. You fold your arms across your chest and try to remember what it was like to have something to hold. 

“Do you like it here?” He says suddenly. As though the two of you had been having a conversation and not just staring at each other silently. A bizarre man who asks such bizarre questions. The answer is obvious to you but you don’t dare say it out loud. Complaining is not tolerated by management, so you just gesture around the room and ask:

“Would you?” His helmet slowly swivels around as he takes in the space. Then, more deliberately, he shakes it. 

“No.” 

“Well, I have my window so it’s not all bad.” This time when you gesture his helmet doesn’t follow; it stays fixed on you. The view-screens on the visor are completely black from this side and give no indication of what he’s feeling. Maybe he was sent here by management to evaluate you. Maybe you were failing. 

“I…” he pauses and looks at the pod before turning back to you. “I could use some help. With the kid.” 

“You mean, you want to leave him with me again?”

“No. I need someone to travel with me.” You feel your heart start beating faster as though it’s picked up on something you haven’t. “I can’t pay you much right now, but I can give you lodgings and food and a cut of every job I take.” 

It’s the greatest thing you’ve ever heard, traveling through space with this man and his child. You feel yourself choking up, and the tears that didn’t spill when you handed the child over are coming now. It’s unbelievable cruel of him, perhaps the cruelest thing a customer has ever done to you, to offer something like that when you both know you can’t accept. 

“I can’t leave. You know I can’t leave.” You shake your head sadly; unable to stop crying now that you’ve gotten started. 

“What?” His voice is much shaper this time, and the change in tone, even through the voice modulator, shocks you. Your arms grow even tighter around your chest and you look down unable to meet the gaze of the helmet anymore. The next time he speaks his tone is flat again. “The man outside. He told me everyone here was free to do as they wished.” He brings his hand up and gestures towards the exit. “The door’s unlocked.” 

It’s not fair to say something like that. How could he, with his armor and his guns and his adopted family ever understand? You want to tell him how they taught you stories when you were younger of all the terrible, incomprehensible things that would happen to you if you stepped outside; of all the things that they would do to you if you tried to escape. Mostly you want to tell him about the time a guard caught you roaming the halls and had knocked you down with his fist and then rammed his boot in to you again and again while you screamed and begged him to stop. Your dinner had never arrived, and you had just been looking for some food, but they made sure that was the last time you ever left your room unaccompanied. You want to tell him all of this, but you know you won’t be able to, not through the tears and the shame because you’ve always known the door was unlocked but you’re too weak and too afraid to leave, so instead you just shake your head trying to convey how sorry, how frightened you are. The proximity of the door begins to feel overwhelming and you back away towards the safety of the window. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” He sighs and looks down at the cradle. “You should come with us. I can take care of you.”

When he says “Us” a surprising feeling of courage flares up in you. If you left with them then you could see the child again; hold them and care for them; watch them grow. The longing to see those eyes looking back up at you is so strong. 

“Can I really?” You ask as you wipe the tears of your face and take a few deep breaths, trying to make yourself look steadier than you feel. You have no idea what you look like: crying, stressed from this conversation, and terrified that he’s lying and this new feeling of hope will be shattered. 

“Yes,” He says. “Just follow me and stay-” Before he can tell you where to stay, the door to your room swishes up. Standing in the opening is a guard you recognize. You don’t know his name, but when he’s bored or business is slow, he’ll come in and use you to pass the time. He never pays, but sometimes, regardless of how you behave, he’ll back-hand you before he leaves and for the next few days your face will bruise and smart. 

You flinch when you see him and try to retreat further in to the room, but the Mandalorian, so much faster than you, grabs your arm and pushes you behind him next to the pod so he’s standing between you, the child and the door. 

“Hey!” The guard barks. He’s paid to intimidate when it’s necessary, and for good reason. Even behind the Mandalorian you can see his bulky frame taking up the doorway. “No pay, no play. You gotta put the money in if you want the time.”

The Mandalorian doesn’t answer at first, but from this vantage point you see can his hand reach behind his back and grab the stock of his rifle. The rest of his body stays so still; if you hadn’t been right behind him you might not have noticed. “You lied,” he says once he has his gun in hand.

Just like when you first saw the child in its cradle, your mind is taking in images too fast and strange to process them at first. You see the Mandalorian swing his rifle around on its shoulder strap in one fluid motion and hear it fire, but you can’t seem to connect that to the sudden disappearance of the guard who, just moments ago, you could see in the edges of the door-frame, much less comprehend why the room suddenly smelled like acrid smoke and tiny red and black flakes, like the glitter on your clothes, are floating down as though they had come from some previously-unknown contraption in the ceiling. 

Before you have a chance to orient yourself, a braying alarm goes off in the hallway outside your room. You’ve heard it before a few times, but somehow the thought that you’re the reason it’s going off now is so frightening it makes your bladder want to loosen. 

“Shit.” The Mandalorian swears and grabs you by the wrist. He keeps his oversized rifle cradled in his other arm awkwardly. “Time to go.”

You’re grateful for his grip on your arm as he pulls you out in to the hallway. As much as you’re desperate to leave, there’s also a wordless panic building inside of you, and all it wants to do is retreat back in to the safety of the room. The man who’s either saving you or kidnapping you looks to the right and then the left of the hallway like he can’t decide which way to go. Both ways are lined with doors identical to yours, and already heads of all shapes and species are poking out of them to see what the commotion is. 

“What’s the best way out of here?” He’s looking at you, but you shake your head helplessly.

“I don’t know. I’ve never left.”

Whether it’s random or based on some intuition, he pulls you both to the right; shoving past the people leaving the rooms and standing around in confusion as the pod follows along behind you both. At the end of the hallway is a stone flight of steps flanked by riveted steel walls. As the three of you make you way down them to the next floor, you notice how different the texture is on your bare feet to the plush carpet you’re used to. You’re terrified you’ll stumble, but the firm grip on your wrist helps keep you upright. At the bottom of the steps you round a corner and come to another flight, and then down this one to another. Despite the noise and confusion on each of the floors you pass, you’re almost at street level, and as far away from your room as you’ve ever been since you were brought here, before you’re stopped.

It’s another guard, this one armed with a phaser pistol, but you barely get a look at them before you hear a shot fire and he disappears just like the last one; replaced by the same stinky confetti. Your mind finally offers up an explanation for what happened, but it is too much, and some automatic defense system in your subconscious shuts it down before you get more than a glimpse. 

You’re already moving again anyways, thick metal armor in front and precious pod behind, and in your head the anxious desire to return to your room hasn’t abated at all, but after the next flight of steps you finally come to the main floor. The long, uniform hallways are replaced by an open room, currently in chaos. Several droids and guards are running around, and some of the people in the room are customers adding to the confusion by yelling at the droids to watch where they’re going and at no one in particular to turn that damn alarm off. 

To your left is a large steel door with a keypad, but standing between you and it is an armed droid, and when the Mandalorian approaches, it holds up the gun and tells him to halt. He speeds up a little instead, dragging you with him, and with a quickness you’re starting to expect, jams his gun in to the droid center-mass. The whole thing lights up with blue sparks and then the droid crumples to the ground. The Mandalorian drops his rifle so it’s hanging off his shoulder again without looking at the attention he is drawing from the rest of the room, and he uses his free hand to press the release switch on the door. Once the three of you are outside and the door shuts, he pulls out his blaster and fires at the keypad on this side of the door reducing it to a mess of wires and sparks. The sound of the alarm is finally gone and the silence in its place is an entirely new thing to deal with. 

Being outside is nothing like you expected it to be. You thought freedom would be like a release, the beautiful comfort of your window only magnified, but it’s nothing like that. Instead of filling your lungs, the the cold night air gets stuck in your throat. That, and the sudden release from the four walls you’ve been trapped in for so long, creates a panic inside you that dwarfs everything you’ve felt so far. The Mandalorian is oblivious to your thoughts, pulling you along again, further and further from your room, and the lights on the street are illuminating the way, but compared to the fluorescents of your room, everything is so dark. Your eyes can’t distinguish between physical objects and the shadows they cast making you feel like you’re going to run in to something with every step forward.

It’s all bearable until you round a corner in to a long alley you’ve never seen before. You’re well beyond the places you can see from your window, and the irrational fear that this place can’t exist, and if you go any further you won’t exist, has you struggling against the Mandalorian’s grip and digging your bare feet in to the ground as much as you can. He stops and turns around but doesn’t let go.

“I’m so sorry,” you say. “We have to go back. Please, they’re going to get so angry. They’re going to punish me.” You bring you other hand up to his wrist like that’s going to help you pull free, but even as you do the pod behind you bumps in to your back. Lightly, but deliberately, like it’s trying to push you forward.

“No one’s going to hurt you,” He says, and it’s easier to believe him with the gentle pressure of the child behind you. You stop struggling, but the Mandalorian doesn’t start moving forward again. He’s looking down at the hand you have on his wrist. “What is that?” He asks. You follow his gaze and feel your brows crease.

“It’s my bracelet, but I’ve never seen it do that before.” The bracelet was an interconnected ring of spheres that had been put on to you when you were first purchased. Only management was able to connect to whatever information stored inside, and you knew from experience it was connected to an implant in your wrist that made it impossibly painful to remove. It’s flashing red and beeping now so quietly you hadn’t noticed before. The Mandalorian presses a button on his helmet while he looks at it and says,

“It’s emitting a short-range tracking beacon. Here.”

“No, don’t!” But you’re too late, and his hand’s already there sliding it off your wrist. It doesn’t even get to your palm before blue sparks start to crackle and an electronic pain shoots up your arm making you cry out involuntarily. Your legs buckle under you and leave you in a kneeling position with your hands still being held over your head. He’s swearing and apologizing and pushing the bracelet back on to your wrist, but all you feel is grateful he hasn’t let go of your hand. If he had, and the bracelet had come all the way off, you think the pain might have actually killed you. You would feel bad about all the trouble you were causing him if there was any part of your body that wasn’t feeling bad enough already.

“We need to get back to my ship. Can you move?” It doesn’t feel possible to keep going, but you want to say yes, want ignore the pain in your arms and your feet and stand up, be strong and follow him if there was really no way you were ever going back to your room, and most of all you don’t want to let the baby go. You so desperately just want to be enough for them so you grip his wrist with the strength you have left and pull yourself back up. Compared to the Mandalorian, your trembling body must look like a joke, but once you’re standing you know you’ll be able to walk and you nod at him. You can feel yourself smiling despite everything with an irrational sense of pride. “Good. We need to keep moving.”

And you do. Down the alley, around corners, and past establishments where the smell of food and the sounds of rowdy patrons pour out. The Mandalorian never slows or stops to get his bearings, just pulls you and the pod along behind him until the city buildings thin out and then fall away behind you. Now, you’re in an open expanse. Every twenty feet or so the hulking figure of a ship stands out in the gloomy night. Your feet squelch through the mud that’s replaced the tar this far out, and for the first time the Mandalorian starts checking over his shoulder every so often but doesn’t stop. Eventually you come right up to a ship that must be his, because he lets go of your hand and pushes a button on his wrist that makes a long, metal ramp extend down. 

After your long trek through the city, the inside of the ship is paradise. The space is cool and dark, like you had always wished your room was, and the walls are so close and tight you start to feel the panic of being outside recede as soon as he closes the hatch and the three of you are safe inside. He opens the pod and you feel another wave of relief when you see the child. They’re awake again, wide eyed and holding their hands out for the Mandalorian who scoops them up immediately. He motions you up the ladder and your hands are trembling and your feet are slick with mud, but he’s waiting with the kid below and you manage to make it to the top without slipping. 

You’re in the cock-pit, settled in to the co-pilots chair with the child’s perfect weight in your lap. Both of you are watching as the Mandalorian flips switches and brings the ship to life when you hear an electronically amplified voice coming from outside. You can tell the voice belongs to a droid, and it’s telling him that laws are being broken and he must turn the ship off and surrender the stolen goods to avoid arrest. You’re the stolen goods of course, but before you can wonder if he’s going to comply, he presses a lever on the dash forward and the ship lurches slightly as it starts to lift off. And if he tilts the controls just so to ram into the droid as you leave, you can only hold that thought in your head for a later time when you hopefully have the strength of mind to process all of this. 

Through the front windows, like a dream, you can see the stars finally, and they are just like you remember them and also so much better than any of the pictures in your mind. The child sits in your arms, a precious treasure, and behind you the planet where you’ve been held prisoner since you were a child yourself recedes in to the black.


	2. Misbehavin'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mando struggles with his new role as provider, while the girl adjusts to her new life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some notes: This chapter is entirely from Mando’s point of view. Mostly out of necessity so we can follow him around, but also because I love watching the show and trying to figure out what he’s thinking at any given moment. I really, seriously, was going to write plot in to this chapter, and then mostly wrote smut instead. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. It’s been raining for like five days straight here and maybe I’m going a little crazy.  
> Also, just in case it needs to be said, I’m writing this assuming that the female character is whatever age you, the reader, are, and not underage. I just feel like Mando would call any woman that can’t fight (yet), and is even slightly younger than him, a girl. But maybe that’s just me. Also, consent is still pretty dubious at this point, but I'll let you decide what's actually going on in the reader's head. Hopefully nothing too terrible! And as for the they/them pronouns for the baby, it's a baby! Mando might be ready to assign a gender, but I'm not.  
> Most of this chapter is based on Mando’s beautifully inept understanding of finances. Like seriously, just fantastically awful with money. He literally had to loot a corpse to pay his bills at one point, I'm in love.
> 
> Mando: I can pay you handsomely.
> 
> Also Mando, five seconds later: Do you take IOU’s?
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading too, and for your amazing, wonderful, inspiring comments!!!

Mando had been young, overconfident, and stupid once upon a time. He had left his people to make his own way in the world thinking that he was invincible, that his enemies would, and should, cower in fear when they saw him coming. Since that time, he had learned many harsh lessons. Often with blasters pointed at him, or the bitter taste of being betrayed left in his mouth. He wasn’t that kid anymore, but somehow, he still found himself taking stupid risks, signing up for jobs that took too much out of him, too much out of his ship, for too little reward. All he wants to do right now is hunt. Hunt, capture, and bring targets in at the same frantic pace he had been since the Empire fell, but the more he seems to want it, the less good work there is to actually be had. 

Every job he has taken outside the guild has barely been enough to cover fuel, repairs to the ship, and the weapons charges he needed to do the next one. It wouldn’t have mattered if it was just him, but now he has the child and the girl to think about too. They had spent the past three weeks staying quiet and out of the way as he brought targets back, eating nothing but ration packs and whatever they could forage while waiting for him to return, and, for the girl’s part, keeping the ship clean and the child happy without ever once complaining. He couldn’t afford the dolls at the marketplace he had seen other children play with, he hadn’t even been able to get the girl a pair of shoes yet, and they weren’t going to be able to last much longer like this, but he doesn't know what else to do. Sooner or later the right bounty will come along, it always did, and the hard times would disappear like a distant memory. He told himself this when he was in shootouts, wrestling asshole bail skippers in to the carbonite, and when the sounds of the girl’s nightmares echoed through the ship because she wouldn’t, or couldn’t, sleep with the cot door closed. 

Despite the fact that he was more motivated to earn than ever, there was no money left, the fuel was low, and he would have to take whatever work came his way on the planet where they were currently docked. The cycle would continue, and now, on top of the kid, there was the girl. 

He would almost think she was happy here if he hadn’t seen where she came from. Her silk-covered, feather-filled mattress replaced with the single pad of the cot they had to sleep on in shifts, her full plates of food, delivered straight to her door, replaced with dehydrated protein packs that most days she has to prepare and serve to all of them, and her clothes all left behind, leaving her with just what she had been wearing when she came aboard. It’s tiny and see-through in the low light of the ship, and Mando wonders if having to live in such close quarters, with her dressed like that, is some sort of divine punishment for all the times in the past when he spent his money carelessly instead of saving it. She still has her bracelet on too. After a few attempts to disable it had shocked her painfully, like the first time he tried to take it off, he had agreed to just leave it. It wasn’t like she was the only thing on this ship being tracked, and he doubted anyone was going to come after a runaway prostitute as hard as they were already coming after him and the kid. 

Still, he had promised her he could provide if she would help him with the child, and she had kept up her end of the bargain beautifully, while his had turned out to be nothing but empty words. He would probably be more stressed about the whole thing if having her so close all the time wasn’t doing entirely different things to the way he was feeling. It was the lack of suitable clothes, of course. He would come through the hatch or up the open ramp and find her on all fours scrubbing some mess that the child or the quarry or his own dirty boot soles had made, and it would knock the breath out of him. The fabric covered enough to leave some things to the imagination, but the metallic properties of it didn’t reflect in the low light of the ship the same way they would have in her glowing room. What little was left to the imagination, Mando was surprised to find that he could, and did, at great length, when it was his turn in the cot during the few hours he had he should have been using to sleep. 

It was also how damn considerate she was. Food always left out on the cot for him after a long job so he could close the door, reflect, and eat in peace. The child adored her. She talked to them more than he did sometimes. Long, rambling stories, sometimes about her home planet, and other times the stories would be more recent. He was really going to have to talk with her at some point about what was acceptable to say to a child, hopefully before they started to show signs of actually comprehending speech. Not that he was any better. He had caught himself explaining the pros and cons of blaster fire against an armored opponent the other day as he cleaned his weapons, sparing no details in the same way his own teachers wouldn’t have spared him, while the kid watched from his cradle, and the girl slept fitfully across the room. Whatever ended up happening, Mando thought, the kid would be well prepared for anything adulthood could throw at them, at least. 

The girl also had an endless patience that made her perfect for their impromptu group. She could hold the child in the co-pilot seat when they couldn’t sleep, while he was buried in star charts, plotting courses that would let him hit the easiest targets with the least amount of actual travelling, for so long he would be certain they had left. Only to turn around finally and see that they were still there, watching him, or looking out at the stars. The way he felt when he saw them like that was entirely new, but he hadn’t had the time yet to figure out what that feeling was. 

It was also just her. The first few days he hadn’t been careful enough around her. He had grabbed her like he would the child to move her out of the way or reach directly above her head for his gear without warning her first or a dozen other things that had made her flinch away in fear. Then she would apologize like she was the one to blame, which somehow only made it worse, so he was more careful now. In opposition to her timidness, she was unabashed when it came to what he considered normal propriety. Not only did she not resent her lack of clothing, she seemed to need the cool air her outfit provided. Even with the heat as low as he could realistically set it to keep costs down for each trip, he had once caught her leaning her back and neck against the ship wall, hair pulled out of the way and hanging over her shoulder, sighing at the way the cool steel felt. Just another image in his head to keep him awake when he was alone, undressed and separated from the rest of the ship by the sealed door of the cot.

He shouldn’t be thinking about her like that. In some ways she was very innocent. He had to teach her how to use the stove so she could heat up food or water, she was always getting excited by things on the ship or views from the windows that seemed so common place to Mando, and she would laugh and giggle with the kid about anything and everything that caught their attention. He did his best to park outside of populated areas instead of docking bays so they could leave the ship and explore together. He had tried to teach her to load, hold and fire a weapon, but when he had been in the middle of explaining how trigger pressure would change the blast rates, and she looked at him very seriously and asked, “just to be absolutely sure,” which side she was supposed to point away from herself, he had changed his mind. 

Despite all this, she was decidedly not innocent in other ways. Several days after she came aboard, she had approached Mando in the cockpit during one of the rare times he had nothing in particular to do. The kid wasn’t with her so they must have been sleeping, but instead of sitting in the other chair like she normally would if she felt like being near him, she waited, standing, until he swiveled his own chair to face her. Then she had moved even closer and leaned over him until her face was right next to his helmet and her hands were pressed against the chair on either side of it. There was nothing threatening in the way she moved, and he wanted to take notes, to study her until he could do the same thing, move without making her feel uncomfortable. The control he had just watching her from a safe distance was already laughable, and this close, he could hear the sound of her breath coming in from the speakers of his helmet. It was doing things to his body that made him not want to trust himself. For a moment though, he didn’t have the strength to push her away and listened helplessly as she told him how grateful she was, how happy she was here, how amazing he was and that all she wanted to do was thank him again, and again, until he understood just how deep her gratitude went. 

Mando had heard some of her stories by then of the place where he had found her, she would tell them to him or the kid just to pass the hours through space or fill the silence. He could never think of anything to say when she finished talking, but it made him think of their first encounter in a new light. If he had known that she was trapped, threatened and coerced then he wouldn’t have used her like that, but he hadn’t known, and he had used her. The two thoughts chased themselves around in his mind like they could eventually cancel each other out if he tried hard enough. 

Still, despite this, if he hadn’t gotten his hands up to push her away before she could pull herself on his lap, he doesn’t know if he would have had the strength to after. She took his rejection well, but with confusion, and she hadn’t tried again. Mando thinks he must be the truly terrible person he’d always thought he was, because half the time he wished he had just said yes and found out exactly how deep her gratitude went. 

He needed to get her a pair of shoes. He needed to get a bounty large enough that they could stop moving for a couple of months. He needed to get a message out to his people to find out where the new enclave was. He needed sleep. 

For now, he had parked the ship in the docking bay of a planet that, according to all the information he could find, has all the signs of being a good place to get work. This planet was widely inhabited, but had no overarching government structure and, as of yet, no standing involvement with the New Republic. Not disorganized enough to have a constant criminal presence, but out of the way enough to cater to escaped slaves, gamblers, smugglers, and people like him looking to do their business without government interference. He would be able to find work here, and, with luck, he would find the kind of work that could get them back in to the red.

He shuts down the ship and gets it ready for the girl to lock it and engage security protocols. He wasn’t planning to be gone long, but there was always the chance that something would come up and he wouldn’t be able to come back for some time. They would both be safe here until he returned. He got up and stretched, and was surprised to find the baby in the co-pilots seat using the setup they had for when the girl couldn’t hold them. Everything had been so quiet he had just assumed they were both sleeping. He picked the child up, and asked them if they had any clue where he should start looking for work. Yes, a cantina was always a good bet. No, he didn’t think they would run in to anyone from the defunct Empire out here. 

By the time he opened the hatch to the lower deck, it was clear why the girl had left the kid upstairs with him. The smell of cooking food filled the space, and he found the girl at the stove when he got down the ladder. She looked much more comfortable, in this part of the ship as in every other, than she had when she first came aboard, and she was humming to herself as she heated up soup in a pot over the blue flame. He didn’t want to disturb her, but he also knew better than to leave without telling her where he was going, or when to expect him back. 

“I have to go out for bit now.” She startles when she hears his voice, but not in the same frightened way she used to, just surprised. 

“You don’t want to eat first?” She says when she turns around, breaking out in to a big smile when she sees the child who holds their hands out for her in turn. “It’s almost done, and we can stay upstairs for a bit while you do.”

“No.” He doesn’t want to tell her that he’s anxious to find work as soon as possible, that he has no money to leave them with and if he’s going to be gone for awhile he should leave as soon as possible so they don’t risk running out of food, but once he’s crossed all the things he doesn’t want to tell her off the list, it leaves him with nothing to say.

“Oh, okay.” She says, after a long pause makes it clear he’s not going to say anything else. “Well, here, hand him over and we’ll engage the security protocol while your gone.” She manages to take the child in one arm and rest them against her hip while still holding the soup spoon in the other with a grace he’s sure he couldn’t manage. 

“Do you remember where the communicator is?” He asks more for something to say, and because he likes to hear her confirm it, than because he thinks she might have forgotten.

“Hanging from second shelf to the left of the control panel. My left.” She smiles timidly to show the last part was a joke in case he hadn’t caught it, and he’s selfishly glad she can’t see him smile in return. It wasn’t fair, because she was trying, but that kind of vulnerability would never be second nature to him. 

“Good. I’ll be back as soon as I can, but…it might be a little while. Just don’t leave the ship, and don’t let anyone in.” He places a gloved hand on the child’s head for a moment, she leans over just a little to make it easier for him, and then he opens the hanger and turns around, waiting for it to close fully behind him before he leaves. 

Whatever he was expecting for a planet outside the New Republic, especially after months of hopping between cities and towns barely advanced enough to have a few droids roaming around, this wasn’t it. Built in the center of a natural rainforest, carved right in to the dense growth in a spoke and wheel pattern common to cities this size, the metropolitan area he had docked in was equal parts technology and nature. The trees here are large enough to support entire ecosystems in their branches, and instead of cutting them down to make room for the buildings, entire complexes have simply been built in to them. Windows cut straight out of the behemoth trunks showed people going about their lives like worker ants in strange, above ground hives. 

Vines and wires tangle together and hang through the mist like ghosts, and a thick fog trapped under the canopy gives the illusion of sky. He can’t see the tops of the trees through it, and knows they potentially rise much higher than he’s imagining. The streets are just packed dirt. No attempt has been made to cover the forest floor with anything, and large puddles, combined with occasional rumbling of thunder make it feel as though it has just been raining and would be raining again soon.

Whether because of the impending bad weather, or maybe this place was even seedier than he thought, all the people he passes on the road between the tree-buildings are wearing cloaks pulled down over their faces. Occasionally one of the figures he passes would have a curled, fur-covered tail poking out from beneath their clothes, but that was the closest he got to catching a glimpse of someone as he walks along. No one looks twice at him, and there are no shops outside for him to check in with. Everything here has been built under the cover of the trunks, and eventually he will have to pick a place to enter, but he doesn’t like going in somewhere when he has no idea what to expect. Overhead, the thunder rumbles again threateningly. 

Finally, he settles on what looked like an open-walled mess hall. This tree is a true giant, even compared with the ones surrounding it. Its root system reaches out at least a hundred feet above ground in each direction, and some ancient disaster must have almost brought the whole thing down because it’s leaning slightly to one side, the roots pulled up, creating a covered area below the base that hadn’t been manufactured. It was so large and convenient; it might even be why whatever species had populated this city originally decided to start building here. This seems even more likely when he walks under the nearest root, larger than him and covered in moss on the outside, and sees carvings and idols covering the insides that clearly delineate this as an important local landmark.

Once he’s inside, the impression of a mess-hall is greater. A large pit covers the center of the space, but instead of a fire it’s filled with glowing hot coals, and, even through his clothes, he can feel how much warmer it is in here than outside. The cloaks must be a reaction to the weather because, in here, very few people are wearing them, and it’s easy enough to pick out the locals, a mostly short and fur-covered species with pointed ears on the tops of their heads and prehensile tails that sway independently, because they take up more than half of the population of the room. That’s not to say there’s isn’t a large variety of other species, it’s a big space, and there’s a surprising number of beings moving around it. Some are hanging about in a bar area where droids and several of the locals are taking orders and serving drinks in wooden cups, others standing by the coal-pit warming their hands or their tails if they had them, and still others sitting next to or lounging against the large tables, made from what looked like average sized trees to him, cut right down the middle and laid with the flat side pointing up, that filled much of the remaining space. 

There are no chairs, just the dirt floor and tables, whose tops only stood a few feet above it, so he takes up a lounging position on the ground next to one and waits; not entirely sure what he’s waiting for, but confident that he'll know it when he sees it. He could approach the bar, but the locals working there are all busy with their orders or chatting with patrons they likely know, and he doesn’t feel like approaching the droids unless he has too. 

As it turns out, fortune is smiling on him today. He isn’t there for more than an hour, listening to some flute music that he suspects is coming from speakers artfully hidden among the native paraphernalia along the root system, when a shadow falls over him. He turns to see who’s approaching, but not too fast, not too eagerly. The last thing he wants to do is give any indication that he’s desperate and screw himself out of a higher pay. Standing above him is a human, a middle-aged man, in an expensive looking tunic with matching trousers and nothing else particularly distinctive. Mando had seen thousands of men like him before, and the thought makes him feel like he’s been doing this for far too long. He waits for the man to speak, and after a few stutters and false starts is finally rewarded.

“You wouldn’t happen to be on the hunt for a job, would you?” Mando nods, but still didn’t say anything. He’s been told in the past that he’s paranoid, but he has also managed to outlive several of the people that said that to him. “Great, that’s just…well, great. I have a proposition for you.” With some maneuvering the man manages to seat himself on the ground across the table from Mando.

“You see,” he continues, “I have a few…parcels, that I need delivered to a star port as soon as possible and-”

“I’m not a smuggler.” Mando cuts him off, but he isn’t sure who’s benefit he’s saying that for, since he has certainly smuggled in the past and would do so again for the right price.

“Smuggler? What a terrible word, smuggler. These packages, although we wouldn’t want them to fall in to the New Republic’s hands of course, are completely harmless. Practically legal. If you don’t get in to all the technical details of the new laws, and who has time for that anyways.”

“Then I guess you won’t mind telling me what’s in them.”

The man makes a face as though Mando has personally insulted him for a moment, but then covers it up.

“I must have misjudged you. I can’t imagine any true Mandalorian asking a question like that.” He says.

Outside the rain has finally started to fall, and the first few drops of it patter when they hit the ground. Mando tries not to think about the kid and the girl in the ship waiting for him to come back as he leans across the table. What he wants to be is intimidating, but what he feels is the deep, constant worry that’s been eating him up for days ever since they left the last port with no money to show for the jobs he had done.

“And I can’t imagine that you have any idea what a true Mandalorian is capable of.” Whatever he’s feeling inside, it must not be affecting his demeanor as much as it feels like on the outside, because the man leans away to maintain the distance between them and frowns in a very unprofessional way. Outside, the thunder rumbles again like it’s helping him be intimidating, or maybe it’s warning him that this sounds like a very bad idea, but he has no way to know if another job will come along so easily. He does, however, know of two people who need food and clothes, and, as much as he hates to admit it, a job where he can bring them along with him feels ideal.They sit like that for a moment, at a stalemate, until Mando is satisfied he's made his point.

“I’ll take the job,” Mando says when the thunder quiets again. “But I need half of the payment upfront. Ten thousand credits now and ten thousand when I arrive with the package at the star port.”

As soon as money is mentioned the man forgets his earlier affront and is back to business. Blustering about how twenty thousand is far too much, and he could easily pay a top-tier smuggler to do it for half that, but of course if this man could find someone he trusted with whatever he was trying to deliver, who would do it for less, then he already would have. Mando stays silent and waits for him to figure that out on his own time. He’s just starting to get really irritated with the man, vaguely imagining shooting him and letting the body lie where it fell so that anyone else who wanted to come negotiate with him would know what they were getting in to, when he notices that the man’s finally fallen silent himself.

“So?” 

“Fine,” The man says, “But you better be as good as they say. If even one of the packages is damaged, I will expect to be fully compensated, and, if you have a run-in with the Republic, that’s on you.”

“Fair enough.” Mando lifts himself up and doesn’t bother to brush the dirt off his cloak. “I’m in docking bay nineteen, group ‘M’. Meet me there in half an hour with the cargo. And bring the payment with you.”

Back outside, the rain isn’t as bad as the thunder made it seem. The canopy above keeps most of it off the roads, and, what does fall, does so in concentrated areas and along the hanging vines, explaining the puddles that are once again filling with water. As he walks, he considers the job. Smuggling isn’t ideal, but the New Republic has more pressing matters to deal with now, and, even at the height of the empire, he has to admit his ship was perfect for it. The girl and the child would stay away from the cargo if he told them too. Well, the girl would and keep the child away too, and the money from this would set them up for months. Toys, shoes, clothes, weapons, and ship repairs all taken care of finally. By the time he gets back the bay, disengages the security, and opens the side hatch to the ship, he’s feeling the rush of his new job in a way he hasn’t for a long time. Maybe since he first picked the kid up. 

Coming up the ramp, he can hear the kid giggling and the girl talking to it happily. Another rush, this one unrelated to the job, adds to his good mood. They’re sitting on the floor of the refresher closet, next to the evac, with a bucket of water between them. She must have heated it on the stove because she’s ladling it over the baby’s head and floppy ears which twitch when the water touches them. The bucket is blocking the drain and the water has pooled around them like a shallow tub, and while he stands next to the ladder and watches, she covers her eyes with her hand for a moment and then pulls it away saying, “Surprise!” The kid makes a genuine look of surprise when she does this, and she repeats the gesture several times while they watch. It’s an indescribable feeling of relief to see the kid happy and safe and having something that resembled a normal childhood experience.

They either don’t notice him come in or are too engrossed in what they’re doing to stop, and the makeshift bath continues. The girl starts singing, some sort of nonsense nursery rhyme, and every few beats she splashes her hands in the puddled water around them and smiles when the kid waves his hands in the air like he wants to copy her. Eventually, she ladles one last scoop over the child’s head and sings, “All done!” and grabs a towel from nearby to bundle him up, ignoring her own damp jumper as she dries his ears.  
Finally, she looks up and sees him there. She smiles and stands with the kid in her arms, wrapped in a towel and squirming around, still in the refresher closet with the now empty bucket between her legs. 

“You’re back! How did everything go?”

He was glad she hadn’t seen his staring, isn’t sure what he would have said about it if she asked. Instead, he’s just starting to tell her he got a new job, when the still squirming kid gets within reach of the wall without her noticing. She’s looking at him, and he’s too far away to stop it from happening, so he just had to watch as the child hit the button to turn on the actual, cold and pressurized, water of the refresher. The baby, taken by surprise and closest to the faucet, gives a shocked cry as the recycled water pours out on to them, and the girl, also shocked but quick to respond, does her best to twist around and shield them from the water, soaking herself in the process. She tries to move away, but the bucket trips up her foot dangerously, and they’re both stuck until Mando can cross the room and shut it off. 

Shivering and obviously cold for the first time since he had met her, the girl hands the crying child over to him so she can step over the bucket and out of the closet. She’s laughing, shaking off her hands and head so little droplets of water go everywhere. The little guy isn’t amused though, and Mando tries to shush him gently while he throws the now-wet towel on the ground. She passes him the only other towel they have, still laughing, even though it leaves her with no choice but to drip-dry.

Mando carries his baby over to where the cradle is hovering, waiting to be of use, and he sees that she’s already set out clothes and a nested blanket for them. Bouncing his arms lightly, he makes shushing sounds and says anything that comes to mind in as pleasant of a voice as he can. After a few minutes the crying stops and, warm and dry again, the kid lets Mando dress them and tuck them in to the cradle. Their round eyes are already closing as if all the mischief has been draining.

“Is he okay?”

“Yes, he’s fine.” He wants to add something about them being a little shit, but despite the child’s lack of communication skills, he also doesn’t want to risk that they might understand. 

“That’s good. I’m glad you were here, or I don’t know what I would have done.” She laughs again, just small echo of earlier, “He really got me good this time.”

She’s undressed now and ringing as much water out of her outfit in to the bucket as she can. Then she hangs it up on the pipe that lead to the air heater where it will dry quickly. He wants to offer her something, anything that isn’t a wet towel, but the only other clothes on the ship are his, and in the time it would take to remove his armor, take his undershirt off, get everything back in to place, and offer it to her, hers will have already dried. He also wants to move, go up the ladder or hide in his bunk, to give her some privacy, but she’s still talking to him, describing some earlier incident where the kid managed to get into a crate she was sure had been secured to an upper shelf, and while she talks she absentmindedly braids her hair. Mando knows that as long as he keeps his head straight, there’s no way she can see where he’s looking, but he still feels guilty about the way his eyes are traveling up and down her body. 

This is the perfect time to bring up everything about the child, about the strange occurrences, possible hidden abilities, that he has been putting off talking to her about even though she deserves to know given how much time she was spending with them. He just can’t though, and, instead of doing any of the things he should be doing, he takes a few steps closer to her while she talks. She looks so incredibly soft, he knows from experience how incredibly soft she is, and as the last few drops evaporate off of her goosebumps run up her arms and across her chest. Her nipples are hard and perfect and Mando doesn’t think he’ll be able to stop looking until her clothes are dry and the temptation is gone, even if he doesn’t like what that says about him. 

He knows she’s not doing it on purpose. Her second life, so different from his own, had not taught her to cover anything, except maybe her feelings, often as fleeting and difficult to decipher as his own. Hadn’t he walked in to her room just weeks ago and undressed her without preamble? Did he think it had been any different with any of the countless other men who had paid some faceless manager for a few hours of her time? She’s done talking now at least, and he takes advantage of the quiet to say,

“The cargo will be arriving soon. I’m going to arrange some things to make sure we have room.”

“Wait,” She says, and reaches out to touch his arm. She does it without having to reach too far, and Mando is trying to remember how he’s gotten so close to her. Did he cross that much space while he was looking at her? He must have, but has no conscious memory of doing it. His body is taking advantage of his overcrowded mind. He needs to get the ship ready to take off, but instead his hands come up to either side of her head as though that, and not any of the other countless things he needs to do, is the right course of action. He’s effectively pinning her to the wall next to the refresher, listening to her breathing, seeing the way her chest rises and falls, and he expects her to finally ask him to stop, to push him away, but when she brings her hands, so small and delicate, up to his chest plate she just runs them along it, stroking it. 

She says, “I know I’m a just a whore and I don’t expect you to want me now,” the same time he says, “I don’t want you to feel like you owe me anything,” and they both have to pause and think about what the other said. She starts talking again first.

“I’m so happy here. I’ll do anything to stay, but not just for the kid. For you too. I love…I love watching you, helping you, just knowing you’re here makes me feel so safe. I want to do anything for you.” While she talks, she looks at his chest plate like she’s too embarrassed to look up. 

“You don’t have to do this. You already do enough.” The words would probably mean more if he could stop pinning her to the wall, if he could give her some space, but when he goes to pull away, she grabs his shirt to keep him here. He feels helpless. Weeks of her on his ship, in his space, and it isn’t just her lack of clothes. It’s her. He wants to be close to her if she’ll let him, to touch her if she asks. He pulls one of his hands off the wall and lets it hover just next to her cheek. She leans in to it like it and sighs like it feels good even though he’s still wearing his gloves, and they must smell like the forest dirt and everything else he’s touched since he washed them last. She tilts her head back then, like an invitation, and he watches as his glove slides down to her neck where it lingers for a moment. He wonders if her heart is beating as fast as his is, and marvels at her trust in him even though he can’t remember ever doing anything to deserve it. 

“It’s ironic, isn’t it?” She says, “The first time I feel like this, and you don’t even want me.” He laughs, not the bright, beautiful laughter like hers, more of a sharp exhale really, and asks,

“Feel like what?”

She blushes and smiles, but before he can fully appreciate it, she brings her hand up to cover her face. She can stand there completely naked in front of him, and still be embarrassed by the thought of telling him how he made her feel. She shakes her head instead of answering, and it does the most amazing things to her breasts. He slides his hands down from her neck slowly so she has time to stop him if she wants. She doesn’t, and they both watch as he cups it and then rubs his thumb over the nipple like he already knows what to do, like it’s second nature. Her eyes flutter shut and her back arches away from the wall into his touch. 

She still hasn’t answered his question, but he’s not going to tease her or press her if she doesn’t want to. She seems to be enjoying herself, and that’s enough for him. Holding her like this, feeling the weight of her breast in his hand and continuing to rub his thumb over her nipple, is more than enough for him. She presses her body forward more forcefully so her hips bump in to his, and Mando’s surprised to find he still has any control left when he feels it slip away a little more.

The hand that had been so patiently pressed against the wall, now went down to her hips like it has been waiting to this entire time, and then around to caress the curve of her butt. He pulls her closer until their hips are pressed tight, with their height difference, his legs guards must be digging in to her uncomfortably, and she squirms until he brings his other hand down as well and picks her up. She has to spread her legs and wrap them around him, but now he’s got her in his arms and her back pressed against the wall, and he’s trying to keep his chest plate from pushing against her too hard, but the feeling of being able to rock against her like this is making it difficult to concentrate on anything else. He’s caught up in how good it is, thinking about how he had got her wet the first time and how it had felt to be inside her. His armor had never felt as uncomfortable as it had that day, so heavy and cumbersome when all he wanted to do was feel how soft she would be against his skin. He was getting hard now, trying his best not to crush her between himself and the wall, and alternating between letting his eyes close and forcing them to stay open and look at the faces she was making. He can feel his feet lifting off the ground, wanting to push against her harder, but it’s never quite enough. 

On his wrist the ship’s proximity sensor gives a warning beep, and all at once he remembers that he’s in the middle of a job, and he hasn’t done anything to ready the ship, but for a moment he’s still not sure he’s going to be able to move away. He can, of course, he has more control over himself than that, but letting go of her and setting her back down on the ground still feels like a crime. He can hear his own breathing echoing around his helmet as though he had been in a particularly difficult fight. 

“Don’t leave!” She says, grabbing the exposed fabric of his shirt at his sides and pulling him back. Well, she couldn’t actually pull him anywhere, but he moved forward when she tugged and she might as well be able to. 

“Have to. Cargo’s here.” He pulls her fingers off his shirt as gently as he can. “You need to get dressed.”

He waits until she’s pulled her clothes back on, still slightly damp but better than nothing, before he opens the back hatch, pushing a few large crates out of the way while the door slowly drops open. 

The man is standing just outside, with two helper droids and four hovering dollies stacked high with individually wrapped packages, each about a foot wide and four feet long. There must be a hundred packages on each dolly, but there would be plenty of space for them on the lower deck. The docking bay he’s parked in has a retractable roof, and the sound of the rain can be heard hitting against it. The man is ringing out his cloak and looking particularly irritable which makes Mando smile behind his helmet. 

“Keep the droids off my ship. I’ll bring them on myself.” He calls out when it’s clear they’re going to start loading the dollies up the ramp. Still focused on his cloak, the man grunts noncommittally and waves them off. 

“Do you need help?” It’s the girl asking from behind him, and the man looks up and leans over to get a better view of her in a way that makes Mando’s body tense. 

“No. Go back inside.” He says without turning around, but the man is coming towards them now, and Mando has to step down the ramp and intercept him before he gets too close. Once they’re in touching distance, the man raps his knuckles against Mando’s chest plate and says,

“Perhaps you and I have more in common than I thought.” He taps his wrist, and it takes Mando a second to understand what he’s implying, but then he does. The bracelet, not just impossible to remove and dehumanizing, it was a beacon to every asshole in the galaxy of what her previous occupation had been. He wants to break the man’s hand, shoot the droids, leave the cargo, take the money and go, but apparently his well of control isn’t dry just yet.

“Do you know how to get it off?” He asks, “the bracelet.” Mando will be the first to admit his abilities with the finer points of technology are lacking, and if this guy’s perversions can help the girl then he’s willing to listen.

“Get it off? Well,” the man leans close like they are conspiring together, “If you had gone through the proper channels, bought the girl that is, they would have removed it for you. But without access to the hard drive I’m afraid it’s stuck, as far as I know. Those implants aren’t made to be removed.”

Mando pulls away and sighs. Another dead end. He looks back for the girl, but she’s retreated further in to the ship and is holding the baby in her arms now protectively, watching the conversation. He starts pulling the dollies up the ramp, sliding them in to place until they’ve fully blocked the her and the kid from view. 

Without anything else to look at the man is pulling a pouch out from an inner pocket of his tunic. He tosses it to Mando who opens it, counts, and closes it back up when he’s satisfied. The man then also hands him a card with coordinates and a puck with the information of who he’s supposed to make the delivery to. All the while ranting about timeliness and not damaging the cargo.

Before he can turn back the to the ship, the man says thoughtfully, like he’s talking to himself, “A skilled technician could get it open of course, the bracelet. Saw it several times, when the courts of the Empire were at their height. Plenty of good politicians brought to heel by the recordings those things hold. If your worried about what hers has recorded, let me give you some friendly advice: kill her and destroy it. Whatever pleasure she brings you isn’t worth the secrets those things can reveal.” Obviously satisfied with himself, the man motions to his droids and leaves the bay before Mando can decide if it would be worth it to break the code and shoot him. 

He pays the docking fees and the cost to refuel, and once he’s back on the ship, he moves the dollies around until he’s satisfied they won’t be in the way before going upstairs to input the coordinates and see where they’re heading. The girl is holding the child in the co-pilot seat, and they both stay silent while he sets their course, gets the green light from the mechanic, and pulls the ship out of the bay. They go through a heavy sheet of rain for a few moments before they get high enough to pull above it, and then they’re in space again and he relaxes. 

The three of them sit in silence for a moment, each with their own thoughts, and then he hears the girl start moving. She sets the baby, probably sleeping now, in the makeshift cot by the cockpit and closes the door. The sound of the hatch tells him she goes down below, and he follows her without really thinking about it, wanting to tell her not to touch the cargo even though he knows she won’t. When he gets down the ladder, he finds her dumping out the bucket in the refresher closet and pushing the release so all the puddled water drains away. She sets the bucket down when she sees him.

“Do you want to talk about earlier?” She asks, and he’s so caught up in the job that for a moment he’s thinking she wants to talk about his conversation with the man. Then it hits him, and he realizes she’s probably talking about what happened before the cargo had shown up. Had they really done that? Touched and talked in such close proximity it had felt as intimate as the first time they met?

“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.” He says. She does something new, rolls her eyes at him in a teasingly condescending way he’s never seen from her. Then she shakes her head and everything feels familiar again. 

“You didn’t make me uncomfortable.” She says. “I was happy, glad. I thought…” She trails off and doesn’t tell him what she thought, and he’s certainly not telling his legs to close the distance between them, but this time at least he’s aware it’s happening. 

“Do you want to?” He asks, meaning talk about what happened earlier, but they were already talking about what happened earlier, so maybe that’s not what he meant at all. 

“I want…to try something. If you want to.” He has absolutely no idea what she has in mind, the possibilities seem endless, and he really should get some sleep before they reach their next destination, but he finds himself nodding just the same. 

“Anything.” He says, and almost means it. She looks at him and smiles as though the parts of that word he doesn’t mean aren’t important to her. She reaches up to his chest plate again and he lets her steer them both over and around so his back is against the closed door of their cot. Then she gives him an almost tentative look before sliding down to her knees in front of him. Her hands move up his legs and across the front of his pants without putting pressure on any one place in particular, and his hands move without thinking, unbuckling his ammo belt, needing to get it out of the way, before he can stop himself. The belt and everything attached to it crash to the floor. It was terrible for the equipment, but even worse it makes the girl jump and let out a surprised cry. 

“Sorry.” He says, but he’s grabbed her hands before she can pull them away and guides one of them to the ties on his pants before letting go. He runs his hand through her hair in what he hopes is a reassuring way while she undoes them, but after a moment she grabs it and pulls it away. She looks up like she’s going to explain, but for once he talks first. “It’s okay. I won’t do that.” 

He lets his hands fall back to the wall instead and just watches while she undoes his pants. He feels more comfortable exposing himself here, on his own ship, than he had in that room, and much more than he had been with the few other women he had done anything remotely like this with. She opens his pants as far as she can with the leg guards still in place and gently pulls his dick out. Just like the first time, the shock of having someone else touch him like this adds to the pleasure, and he feels himself moan like its an instinct, a compulsion, he must follow. Maybe she just wants to, or maybe she does it because she knows exactly how it will make warmth spread from his lower stomach down to his groin, but either way she looks up at him, and when she sees him watching, licks her lips. She strokes him a few times, still soft though he doubts that will last long, while her other hand grips his leg just above the knee to steady herself. Then she brings her head forward and licks him from the bottom of the shaft to the tip before wrapping her lips around the head and sucking gently. 

His heart is beating so fast again, he thinks that if it keeps up, he might pass out, and in the small space it feels like she must be able to hear it. He barely catches his hands before they grab her hair again. The temptation is too strong so he brings them up to fold behind his head, using his helmet to press them against the wall where they won’t cause trouble. The position makes him feel more exposed, but somehow that only amplifies everything else she’s doing. She’s moving her head now, taking him deeper every time, using her tongue to press his dick against the roof of her mouth. The more she moves, the harder he gets, but it doesn’t seem to affect how much she’s willing to take in her mouth. Every time her lips pass the head, they catch just a little, and he can feel his stomach clenching. Heat and tightness seem to be connecting all of his muscles to his groin until even the way her fingers are digging in to the back of his knee is sending wildly confused signals to his brain. 

She doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up even a little, and every single thought in his head is about what she’s doing, how she’s doing it, and what she looks like doing it. His mouth, usually so hesitant to say anything his brain suggests, is working overtime now. Telling her how grateful he is, how good it feels, how beautiful, soft and perfect she is, that he would do anything she wanted, give her anything he wanted, and the whole time her head just keeps bobbing, lips sucking. Together they’re making the dirtiest noises he’s ever heard. 

He’s thinking about the first time, and all the time they’ve spent together in between. He’s thinking about her naked body, the way it had felt to touch her breast, the way her head had tilted back like she wasn’t afraid of him, and the way it had felt to hold her against him like that. It’s all too much. None of the times he had touched himself in the past few weeks had prepared him for the way this felt, for the way she looked. She slows down for a moment and looks back up at him, while she lets her tongue drag slowly along the head. He’s so hard and leaking now, and he can see the way her spit stretches from his dick to her tongue. Nothing in his life has ever prepared him for a sight like that.

The feeling of his orgasm starts really building as she takes her hand off the base of his dick and down to his balls, first caressing then squeezing. That, in tandem with the things her tongue and lips are doing, and her fingers still digging in to the back of his knee, has one of his booted heels lifting off the ground. His head falls forward, arms still up, chest out, making moaning sounds so needy they would have been intolerably embarrassing in any other situation. He didn’t think until later, much later, that he probably should have given her some warning. In the moment, everything was too much, too overwhelmingly good to even consider it. If an enemy had come out right then, or if she had made a move for his blaster, he doubted he would even have had the presence of mind to do anything about it. Instead of reaching for his gun, she gives his balls a rough squeeze at the same time her tongue brushes against just the right spot, and he lets out a pitifully weak sob as he felt himself cum. The pleasure blocks everything else out, coming in waves and making his stomach clench and his knees loosen until he thinks his legs might give out. 

When he finally opens his eyes, she’s still on her knees looking up at him and licking her lips again, though this time in a more functional than sexual way. When he moves his hands back down from above his head, they’re numb and tingling, and he has to shake them out for a few seconds before offering her one and pulling her off the ground. The absence of her hand wrapped around his leg makes him feel strangely empty. 

Now that she’s standing, he can see how red and irritated her knees are. Then the guilt, conspicuously absent when he had felt so full of need for her, came full-force. He had promised, swore, to himself that he wasn’t going to do something like this. No matter how much seeing her in various states of undress on the ship made him want to. She was here to take care of the child while he worked, which she did flawlessly, and, without so much as a hint of payment yet, she also cleaned and cooked and watched the Navigator while he slept. Now he was afraid she was considering what they had just did as another one of her chores.

“Was that,” He must have been making even more noise than he thought because he has to clear his throat and swallow before he continues, “Was that okay?”

She frowns. “I was going to ask you that.” 

He shakes his head like he’s unconsciously copying her, or maybe he’s just picking up some of her mannerisms. 

“Isn’t that obvious?” His pants are still hanging open, his dick less than an inch away from her naked stomach, and he can’t stop himself from imagining that she can still taste him, from wondering, just for a moment, what she would taste like. 

“Maybe I just want to hear you say it.” She says. He had been reaching down to tuck himself in to his pants when she speaks, and now he’s remembering that this is exactly how they had ended this last time: with him finishing, pulling his pants back up, and checking on the kid which is exactly what he had been planning on doing now. He stops and brings one of his hands slowly back up to her face, tilting her chin up and holding it like that so she can’t look away. 

“I’d rather hear what you have to say.” He’s not surprised this time when she tries to turn her head, her lack of embarrassment doesn’t extend to talking about what she wants from him, but he keeps his hand on her firmly so she can’t just yet. 

“I…I thought that was nice. Good, I mean.” She’s clearly uncomfortable, and he almost takes pity on her and drops it, but then he asks,

“Do you want to keep going? Do you want me to touch you?” She’s blushing again, trying to turn her head and hide behind his glove, but he doesn’t let her. She’s quiet for so long though, he finally relents and lets go of her face. Instead of pulling away, she closes the distance between them, pressing against him until her head is resting against his chest.

“What about the child?” She asks, “Maybe we should check on him.” But her hands are moving up and down his arms like she doesn’t want to go anywhere. 

“He’s fine. If he was awake, we’d know.” The hatch to the upper deck was still open, and everything was quiet above. He can feel her nodding against him.

“Okay, I think I’d like that. If you touch me, I mean.” While she talks, her hands slide down to his gloves. “Without these if that’s okay.” 

“That’s fine.” 

He moves his hands up behind her back and takes each one of his gloves off, tossing them on to the floor with his belt. Then he brings his bare hands back to her shoulder blades, pulling her hair out of the way so he can touch the back of her neck. She sighs and relaxes against him, so he takes a moment to slide the straps of her jumper off her shoulders and the whole thing falls silently to the floor. His hands travel down her back, fuck she’s so soft, and asks, “Like this?”

“Yes. That’s nice.” Her voice is light, feathery, and he wishes he could record it, keep it in his helmet, and play it for himself on the nights when he’s alone, outside, bored and waiting for his target to make a play. 

“Tell me,” he says while his hands continue to run up and down her exposed skin, “If I do something you don’t like.” It’s easier to think clearly now. He doesn’t want to be selfish. He wants to take his time, to make her feel as good as she makes him feel. His hand finds her butt again, and he has to lean them both over so he can get a handful and squeeze, drawing a gasp from her. From this position he can feel her trembling under his bare hands. 

“Do you want to lay down?” He asks, thinking about how red her knees had been. 

“On the floor?”

He can’t see her face from this close, but it doesn’t sound like she’s joking, and he hears himself sigh. 

“No, not on the floor.” He straightens up and pulls them both away from the wall so he can press the release switch and open the door to their shared cot. He can tell she was the last one to use it because all the blankets are bunched up at the top where she uses them like pillows instead of covers. She looks up at the cot and then back to him. “It’s okay,” he says. “Lay down and I’ll follow you.”

She pulls herself up and slides in, and while she does, he tries to memorize every inch of her, every curve, the way she moves, but it’s too much to take in all at once. With one last look towards the hatch where everything is still, blessedly, quiet, he pulls himself in after her. She spreads her legs to make room for him, and he wants to tell her how beautiful she is, but he can’t find the right words. It’s a tight fit with the both of them in here, but he’s able to rest on his knees and sit on the heels of his boots without bumping his helmet against the ceiling, and his legs fit between hers with a small amount of room to spare on either side. 

He brings his hand to her breast to hold it like he did before and rubs his thumb, now uncovered by his gloves, over her nipple hoping to get the same reaction. He’s not disappointed. She sighs and presses her head in to the blankets, arching her back in a way that makes her thighs tighten around his own. He keeps caressing her breast, but he’s not looking there anymore, or at her face even though it’s no doubt doing beautiful things of its own. Instead he’s looking between her legs, where all her clenching and fidgeting is making it clear that she needs more, just like how earlier he had needed more. The hand that’s not rubbing and gently pinching her nipple is bracing him against the wall so he doesn’t fall on to her, so he has to make a difficult decision. In the end, it’s the memory of having his fingers inside her before, of how wet and warm she had been, that convinces him, and he moves the hand not holding him up down her stomach, letting his fingers dip in to her bellybutton on the way down. 

He’s more relieved than surprised when he finds she’s already wet by the time his thumb finds her lips. His fingers spread her so he can slide it just inside and then back up to rub against her clit. He’s not trying to tease her, just looking for all the right places to make her gasp and twitch and squeeze her legs against his. She’s still very quiet, but she’s indicating to him in other ways how he’s making her feel, so he doesn’t mind. He repeats the same motion with his thumb again, and her eyes stay shut, but her mouth falls open slightly and her breathing gets heavier so he continues. Now his knees are starting to ache, but that seems more than fair, and he has no intention of stopping. Not when she’s started rocking her hips in time with his movements, and when he finally slides one of his fingers inside her, the feeling of it is so much better than he remembered. So warm and wet, and when he manages to get the timing just right, curling his finger at the same moment his thumb hits just the right spot, she lets out a tiny whimper like she’s powerless to hold it in. 

There’s no rush, nowhere else to be. He wants to do this right and his job has made him a very patient man. The longer he rubs his thumb against her the easier it is to make her react. He’s got two fingers inside her now and he pushes them in as far as he can, rubbing them against her walls as much for her pleasure as for the way it makes him feel touching her like this. He spreads them apart inside her, and she lets out a choked moan. She speaks for the first time since she laid down. Just three words:

“Oh, please, more.” 

He had never wanted anything more than he wants to comply with that, but there isn’t enough space in here for what he has in mind, so he has to pull away from her. It’s difficult though when the sudden loss of his fingers makes her whine and open her eyes to look at him like she’s worried he’s going to leave.

“It’s okay. I’m just…” It’s easier to show her than try to finish the sentence so he pulls out of the small room and grabs her legs, pulling her across the cot until her hips are right on the edge. Now that both of his hands are free, he makes quick work of his pants. He had barely pulled them up earlier anyways, and he’s hard again just from watching her, but he feels more in control now. Before he does anything else, he makes sure her legs are comfortable, wrapped around him tightly. 

“Is this what you want?” He’s breathing heavily again and his voice sounds so hoarse now. She doesn’t hesitate to answer.

“Yes. Please, now.” 

He lines himself up this time. It’s much easier at this angle, and he gets to watch as his dick sinks in to her. It’s indescribable, and the thoughts he’s having about her are so possessive it’s almost frightening. Before he gets lost in it all again, he remembers to bring his thumb back to her clit as he rocks inside her. Her head falls back again, and she digs her elbows in to the pad below her, lifting her back up so sharply it almost looks painful. He continues like that while she comes apart below him. Her hands are out to the sides, pressing against the wall like she’s trying to hold herself together, and her legs are squeezing against him. 

He doesn’t let her set the pace, she doesn’t look like she could, but when she presses her legs against his back like she’s trying to get him to thrust deeper, he does so gladly. He keeps the pace slow, as steady as he can, but even so he’s worried he’ll finish first again. He’s feeling a familiar warm sensation in his lower stomach, and before it becomes overwhelming, he leans over just far enough so his free hand can go back to playing with her nipples. He watches the whole thing through his viewscreen, reminded again how he’s never done anything in his life to deserve someone as beautiful as her. He should have been doing it all along apparently. As he squeezes, rolls her nipple between his fingers, and does his best to move his thumb on her clit in a complimentary way, she gives out one last breathless moan. 

Even if he couldn’t see it in the way her hands press against the wall, so hard the angle of her wrist becomes awkward and painful to look at, or the way her legs tighten around his waist like the two of them are fighting, not fucking, he’s also inside of her and he can feel it. He can feel her cum from the inside, and not everything that makes him feel is about sex, not by half, but all he can do is watch. Watch the way her hand falls off the wall with a quiet squeak, watch the way her chest moves up and down with the force of her breathing, watch the way her head falls to the side as his body relaxes. Her hair, damp with sweat, has fallen out of its braid and is sticking up in some places, matted down in others. It makes her look like a piece of art. He could never look at her for long enough, he thinks, but his body has other ideas. 

He has no intention of using her, hopefully ever again, so he brings his hands to her hips and holds them still while he pulls out. As wrecked as she is, she doesn’t miss a chance to be helpful, and scoots her hips back until the cot can fully support her, one of her legs stays wrapped around him so he can’t get far. 

He touches himself like that, one hand braced against the doorway because he’s not sure how long his legs will be able to support him. It’s enough, just like this, to feel her leg around him, to watch her chest still as her breathing evens out, to look at all the places on her body he’s touched and all the ones he hasn’t yet, and for the second time that day he has an orgasm standing up. More intense than the first one, if only just because of his exhaustion. 

Afterwards, he only remains standing long enough to see he’s made a mess on her stomach and crotch and thighs, long enough to see she’s sitting up on her elbows now and looks like she’s about to say something, but not long enough to hear what she has to say or help her clean up or any of the numerous other things he wants to do. Instead, his legs finally give up, and he slides down the wall on to the floor where his helmet comes to rest just below his weapons locker. Possibly not the least-graceful thing he’s ever done, but definitely a top contender. 

He closes his eyes, and thinks that in just a moment he’ll get up, grab the damp towel and her clothes, help her clean up, check on the kid and the navigator, maybe he’ll even prepare some food so the girl doesn’t have to for once. He thinks he’s going to get up and do all of this right up until the moment he falls asleep, and then he dreams about it too.


	3. A Horse with No Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As life on the ship becomes more dangerous, the reader must learn how to step up to the challenge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Spoiler alert in case you haven't finished the series!* Holy shit the finale was so good!!! But I came up with this story idea before I knew what would happen in the show, and foolish me thought all the Mandos would escape Nevaro. So the next chapter will diverge from cannon on that part. Also thank you all so much again for reading and commenting!!! You're all super amazing and I'm so glad I can share this with you!

Chapter 3

You’re shocked. Momentarily indifferent to every moment in your life before this one. You sit up to tell Mando that something amazing, indescribable, has happened, but he seems fairly indifferent too as he slides down the wall and disappears on to the floor. You wait another minute to see if he’ll reappear, but, by then, the sound of his breathing makes it clear he’s fallen asleep.

Even though you have to carefully pull yourself over him to leave the cot, and your legs shake a little as you get dressed and your hands as you clean up, seeing Mando unburdened in his sleep feels good. It feels good in the same way pleasing him had felt good, and being useful on the ship felt good, and taking care of his kid felt good. It feels safe.

Despite your earlier closeness, Mando has never done anything that makes you think it would be a good idea to wake him up, so you leave him on the ground and go to the upper deck once you’ve dressed. Upstairs, it’s easier to breathe. The hulking shape of the cargo Mando brought on board, even among the more familiar pots, stove, and crates of bounty hunting gear, gives off a menacing aura, and you’re glad when it's out of sight. The cockpit door has been left open, and through it, you can see open space in the windows above the blinking console lights. As you pass the closet, you open the door to check on the child, but they’re still bundled up, sleeping where you left them. You leave the door open, in case they start to stir, and sit in the pilot’s seat. 

Most of the buttons and levers are meaningless to you, there’s so many you doubt some of them do anything at all, but Mando’s taught you enough to know how to lock up the ship, notice if something is flashing that shouldn’t be, and, theoretically, how to take off and put the ship in orbit without him. For now, everything looks normal, and a few button-presses on the screen tells you it will be about four hours until autopilot brings the ship to its destination. If he hasn’t woken up by then, you’re reasonably sure the ship with put itself in to orbit without further instruction. You spend some time going through all the steps in your head though, just in case, reaching out to brush your hands against the switches, mimicking Mando, until your certain you haven’t forgotten anything. 

Satisfied, you swing the chair back around to check on the child, but they aren’t where you left them. As though it was waiting for something like this to happen, worry appears in your mind like an old friend, but now there’s another voice in your head too. One that says the ship is closed up, there’s no where for them to go, and it’s not an emergency. You can still feel your heart beating quickly as you push aside the blankets like they might be hiding in them. When that turns up nothing, and a few quick tosses of their favorite hiding spots comes up equally empty, you climb down the ladder. Staying calm, not imagining what would happen if you checked all the spots downstairs and still couldn’t find them, not picturing what space would do to someone so small and helpless in a matter of seconds. Definitely not that.

The panic disappears just as suddenly as it came on when you do a quick scan of the lower deck. Everything is just as you left it. Except the child, who’s managed to climb against one of Mando’s loose arms and fall back asleep as though it was the most comfortable spot in the world, one of their ears squished against his chest plate. You can see them both breathing, hear the steady sounds of it, and you hang by the ladder listening for a few more seconds before pulling yourself back up. Everything is fine, there are no emergencies, and the ship is safe.

Without anything better to do for the remainder of the flight, you sit in the copilot’s seat and look out at the stars. The time passes and you think about everything that happened earlier, about everything management always said would happen if you left, and about several things unrelated to either. You think until time falls away and the stars blur in front of you, and when the ship’s communicator comes to life with a burst of static, you’re so far away that for a moment you could swear it’s the sound of a door opening behind you. It’s not, of course, the door you can still hear in your mind is very far away now. The world shifts back in to focus as the static comes through again, and a quick glance down shows you the light for the comm system is blinking. Ahead of the ship, large enough in the view screens that it worries you a little you hadn’t noticed it before, is a space station. Flat and elongate, sitting still in this otherwise empty portion of space, it looks both vaguely threatening and stupidly benign. The next time the comms light up, a voice comes through clearly:

“Razor Crest, please state your business.” 

You haven’t moved yet, were too busy taking in the space station to think of what the initial static implied. You had just assumed the coordinates were for a planet, that there would be time to wait for Mando to wake up when you got there, to take care of anything important, and a quick glance behind you confirms he hasn’t suddenly materialized to handle the new problem. After you don’t respond, the voice repeats the order, but this time they leave out the ‘please’. You want to respond, could probably even think of something to say, but hesitate. You might say the wrong thing, make them angry, and maybe Mando doesn’t want you to talk to them at all. Time passes in slow motion as you try to decide, but no one comes to save you, to take back control, and finally the feeling that it would be worse not to respond than anything you could say to them, convinces you to press the button.

“This is the Razor Crest.” You want to say more, but in the moment nothing else comes to mind. 

“Razor Crest, you’ve entered orbit around the station. Please state your business.” They respond.

“We’re-” You’re what? Driving shady packages for shady men across the galaxy? You consider saying traders, or merchants, but realize the ship will probably be a clear giveaway that’s not the case. Finally, you settle on something vague enough to sound reasonable to you. “We’re making a delivery. A scheduled delivery.” You add, hoping it makes the whole thing sound more business-like. 

“Who is the delivery for?” The voice comes back immediately.

“Uh…” Shit. Your mind, having now realized what a bad idea this was, goes blank. “If you can wait, hold, for a second, I’ll go get the captain, and he can explain.” You probably should have said that from the beginning, but it’s clear now you’ve used up the voice’s patience. 

“Razor Crest, standby. We are sending a ship for boarding and inspection.”

You don’t bother responding this time, would probably only manage to makes things worse, just throw yourself down the ladder and climb so quickly that when your feet hit the lower deck, it’s jarring. 

“Mando!” You call out. He’s still in the same position, with the kid in his arms, moving gently against his chest plate as he breathes. You expect him to jump or startle when he wakes up, but after a moment his helmet just shifts as though he had been awake the whole time. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks. His voice is so calm and, even through your distress, hearing it helps you feel calmer too. 

“There was a voice on the comms,” You start, but then shake your head. He needs more context than that. “We’re here. At least, I think so. I thought it would be a planet, but it’s not. They were hailing the ship, and I just wanted to tell them that we’re regular delivery people. That we’re going to make a delivery” He’s already standing up while you talk, balancing the child in one arm and using the other to pull up his still-undone pants.

“You told them what?” He puts the child in the cradle, but doesn’t wait for you to catch your breath and respond before moving past and climbing the ladder. Now that he’s awake, some of the panic is gone, but It doesn’t take long, as you stand there uselessly, for the panic to be replaced with sadness. A sadness that feels like helplessness and self hatred all rolled in to one. How can failing Mando be so much worse than failing management when he never hurts you? There’s so much more he makes you feel than anyone you’ve ever met, but it only makes the desire to do better, be better, that much more devastating when you fall short.

Because you need to, you pick up the child from the cradle and hold them in your arms. They blink, yawn and look around as the two of you pace. Too nervous not to move, too nervous to go up and see what he’s doing, but the longer you hold them, the better you feel. Up above, everything is quiet.

Eventually Mando comes back down, but he doesn’t say anything, just waves the two of you back while pulling down a large canvas sheet from above to cover as much of the cargo as he can. It’s barely large enough to conceal the tops of the dollies, and even from where you’re standing just behind the ladder, you can see the wrapped packages peaking out from below. 

“I’m sorry,” You say as he moves around. “I thought I was saying the right thing.”

“Don’t worry. It’s fine” His voice is level again, frustration gone as quickly as it came, but he waves you off again when you try to take a step forward. He gives the cargo another look, before grabbing a heavy net made of nylon straps to throw over it as well. You hear him sigh. The whole getup only makes the packages more conspicuous, but before he can find anything else to throw on top, the whole ship gives a lurch that almost knocks you off your feet. This is followed by another shudder and the sound of scrapping metal, then everything is still again. A small hologram pops up on Mando’s wrist guard, and the figure tells him they’re ready to board. He acknowledges, closes it, and bends over to twist open the circular hatch in the floor. It releases with a hydraulic hiss and swings upward, and the figure from the hologram pulls themselves up through the hole. It’s a woman, wearing a padded, black jumpsuit covered in belts and buckles that hold ammo just like Mando’s, and she’s armed with a blaster on her hip. On her arm is a metal sigil in the same shape as the space station. A larger gun, black and wide with a short muzzle, is strapped across her back. Mando’s own rifle is right where he left it, tucked away behind his chair in the cockpit, where it will be of absolutely no use to him now. 

“Sorry about the rough docking.” She says while her eyes scan the room. “Something went wrong with my ship censors. Couldn’t locate you, and I had to come in blind.” Mando doesn’t answer, and she looks at you and the child for a moment before turning back to him.

“So just making a delivery, huh?” She starts again when it’s clear he’s not going to. She walks past him and taps her foot on the nearest dolly where the canvas sheet reaches barely halfway down. 

“Yes.” He answers. She’s got her hand resting on her blaster now and is walking around the cargo, looking. 

“And who gave you our coordinates?”

Mando’s following her movements with his helmet, but he stands still, arms hanging at his sides, looking relaxed. You watch, though, as the fingers on his right hand stretch and then curl up in to a fist. 

“An interested party.” He says, as she comes back around the cargo to stand in front of him. 

“Oh, I bet.” 

She reaches out and throws the canvas off the top of the nearest stack of packages, and moves to grab one of the boxes, but Mando blocks her hand with his own before she can. “Don’t.” He says, and then, so quietly you almost can’t make it out, “I’m sure we can figure something out.” 

The woman looks down at Mando’s hand blocking hers, and then back up to his helmet. In your arms, even the child is quiet, watching the exchange intently with wide eyes. 

“I hope that by ‘figure something out’, you mean you’re going to let me have a look in one of those packages so I can make sure you’re not bringing something in to my home the Republic wouldn’t approve of.” Her hand is starting to tighten on her blaster, but Mando doesn’t move. You don’t want to look away from him, but out of the corner of your eye, you can see the kid lift up one of their hands too. Whether he’s copying the way Mando held his own hand out, or just reaching out towards him, you can’t tell.

“We’re not here to cause trouble,” He starts again. “Just making a quick delivery and then we’ll be out of your hair.”

She sounded so sure the first time, you don’t think he’s going to be able to change her mind, but this time when he speaks, the woman’s hand loosens on her blaster and then slips down to her side. He notices too, and takes the opportunity to reach in to his breast pocket and pull out a pouch. He opens it and holds it out, and as he does, the kid leans forward in your arms. You look down and see that their eyes are closed, hand still extended, and you pull them closer to your chest, wishing they were upstairs. Without speaking, the woman holds her hand out towards Mando’s and, though it’s difficult to tell from across the room, she looks almost confused. Silent as well, he turns the pouch over and the credits fall out into her palm. 

“It’s alright,” Mando says. “Take this, for the inconvenience. Everything’s good here; you don’t have to check.” She holds the credits in her hand for a moment, looking at them, but then pockets them and says:

“Everything is good here. I don’t have to check.” 

You don’t realize how still you’ve been standing, how tense the moment feels, until a burst of static shocks you back to reality. It’s her communicator, and a voice that sounds like the one you spoke to earlier comes through, asking her to check in. In a more natural voice than she had used a few moments ago, she says everything is fine, just a standard delivery and to go ahead and let them dock. In your arms, the child has fallen back against you, perhaps reacting to the defusal of tension in the room as well. 

The woman gives one more glance at Mando, but doesn’t look at the cargo or over towards you again, before sitting down, hanging her legs over the hatch and jumping. As soon as she disappears, he closes the door and spins the wheel to seal it. Then he walks over to where you’re standing, but the tilt of his helmet makes it clear it’s the child he’s looking at. You look down too and are surprised to see they’re sleeping again, even though they had seemed so wide-awake just moments ago. Before he can say anything, if he was going to say anything, his wrist guard beeps. 

“Razor Crest, you are cleared for entry. Lock on to docking station 6.” Mando confirms, then turns around and climbs up the ladder until all you can see is his cape, his boots, and then he’s gone, leaving you all alone with the sleeping baby and your thoughts. 

You’re not alone long before you feel the ship shudder again, this time because you’ve landed in the docking bay. The thought brings up painful, but still mostly distant, memories of your parents, and you feel yourself automatically pushing them away. Mando reappears, his rifle on his back now, jumping down the ladder in a way that makes him look more like a fluid than a solid. You want to apologize again, but he’s already moving, pulling the canvas off the boxes and pressing the release button for the larger, back hatch that starts to open with a whine. After a few seconds though, it’s clear there’s something wrong. Its descent is halting, starting with a series of metallic groans, and screeching false-starts, before eventually coming to a stop about halfway down. Mando swears as he opens the electrical panel below the door switch, jerks his fingers away when the wires spark angrily, and swears again. 

“Can I help?” You put the sleeping child back in the cradle, and maneuver around the dollies while also trying to give Mando, who looks like he’s had a very shitty morning, some space. 

“No, it’s fine,” He answers. “I just…” With a grunt, he uses the wall for leverage to pull himself up the half-open hatch door, grab on to the top, and swing himself outside. You hear him land with a thump. After a few more grunts and metallic sounds, he calls in for you to press the door release again. This time the hatch opens all the way, and Mando reappears slowly as it drops. 

Behind him is the interior of a space station. The whole place is built like a warehouse, with exposed, steel beams holding up three levels of docking bays, all separated from a main tunnel, that leads straight in to space, by the shimmering blue film of airlocks. Everything is illuminated by solid-white and flashing-blue lights giving it a feel of ordered chaos. Now that the hatch is open fully, you can see and hear the bustle of activity as other ships on this level are being loaded, unloaded, and repaired by droids and beings of several different species. The sounds of various languages, whirring tools, and thumping cargo is just short of overwhelming, but the sight of the thin blue screen, acting as the only barrier between you and the cold death waiting outside, of it is even worse. You want to tell Mando to be careful, or, better yet, just forget about the job and leave before there’s any more trouble. 

He’s to the left of the ramp now, using a tool from his belt to unscrew a panel on the side of the ship, and you can see the reflection of his hands in his armor as he works. The other ship must have caused damage when it was docking, and when you lean over the edge of the ramp to get a better look, you can see the panel, as well as the ones next to it, are dented. The warping is so bad that, even unbolted, Mando has to struggle to wedge his fingers underneath to pull it off. When he does manage to pry it away from the ship with a pop, you both watch as a few loose cylinders and a mess of wires and rubber connectors fall out. The wires hang against the side of the ship, but the cylinders fall to the ground and roll away in different directions as though they had been trying to escape all along. 

Mando finally turns up to you, and when he sees that you’re watching, says, “I’m going to fix that.” He glances down at his wrist guard and then past you at the cargo waiting to be unloaded. “First I have to get that off the ship before anyone else decides it’s worth checking out.” 

His allusion to your earlier mistake, and the trouble it caused, makes your stomach tighten, and you don’t know what to say. He unloads the dollies in silence and fiddles with their controls until all four of them fall in to a passable line behind him, hovering silently and waiting for directions just like you are. When he’s done, he asks you to press the door switch again while he waits outside, but doesn’t seem surprised when nothing, not even the groaning sounds from earlier, happens. He looks around the ship, at the droids and the people and the other ships pulling in, like he’s looking for something specific, and then turns back to you.

“Will you be okay with the hatch open? I won’t be gone long, and I don’t think we’ll have any trouble here. This station is unaffiliated, and it looks like they police themselves.” Then he adds: “But stay upstairs if you can.” 

Further in to the hanger, you can see people walking around dressed and armed like the woman that Mando had bribed, and if you’ve seen them, he has too. Whatever the cargo is, the sooner it’s someone else’s problem the better.

“We’ll be fine here. The ship is safe, and if there’s trouble we’ll hail you.”

“Good.” He turns to go, but hesitates and turns back again. Even through the helmet, you can see him trying to decide. “There’s a blaster in the locker. You remember?” It would be difficult to forget his disastrous attempt to teach you how to fire one. How nervous you had been, how complicated it had seemed, and the way he had given up with a frustrated sigh when you asked one too many questions. You nod to acknowledge you remember. “If you have to use one, then you should. Do you want to go over it again?” 

You shake your head no. Even if it wouldn’t be a waste of time when all you wanted to do was leave, you’re in no rush to disappoint him again today. 

“Only use one if you have to.” He points his finger at you like he could make the whole world act the way he wanted, if only he spoke firmly enough. 

“Okay.” You go over it again because you like to, and think he does too. “Do stay upstairs. Do call you if something happens. Don’t use the guns. Unless I feel like I have to. Then, do use the guns. Anything else?”

“Do you want anything else?” He asks instead of answering. He’s started walking towards you again, like he can’t help it, even though you’re in the opposite direction of wherever those packages need to go, until he’s standing right in front of you. His armor reflects the lights of the hanger until it looks more blue than chrome. What was there to want? But just having him ask also feels good. You can’t remember anyone ever telling you not to say ‘I want’, but your also certain that Mando is the only person in a very long time to make you feel like he gives a damn. Hadn’t he given you what you wanted earlier, even when you had no right to ask, hadn’t even known to ask? 

“My parents…died, in a hanger just like this one, and all I want is to leave as soon as possible.” Then you add, “If that’s alright.” Because you don’t want it to seem like you don’t know he’s busy, and working, and taking care of you and the child all at the same time. It’s surprising how liberating it feels to say it out loud, and have him hear it.

“Okay. I’ll fix this as soon as I get back, and then we’ll leave.” He says. Characteristically undramatic, but, like so many things he does, it’s a revelation for you, and Mando has no idea, or doesn’t care, because he’s already walking away before you have the chance to thank him. 

Back in the ship, the child is still sleeping, and you turn on the cradle motor and guide it up to the top deck, closing the hatch behind you. You don’t bother engaging the security, there’s little point with the door wide open, and the view from the cockpit will give you an idea if anyone approaches anyways. There’s not much to do to stay busy, and you’re grateful when the child wakes up with a small noise and stretches their arms out when they see you. 

You keep each other company, the child mostly toddling around after their metal ball, or Mando’s depending on who you ask, which you roll for them every time they bring it over. Eventually, you both seem to come to the same conclusion: you’re hungry. Instead of hunting down the ball the next time you roll it along the floor, they stand at the hatch, looking down. The kid hasn’t eaten since you did last, and your own stomach started growling shortly after Mando left, so they must be feeling it as well. It seems impossible, but when you look at the clock in the cockpit, it tells you that Mando’s been gone for slightly less than an hour. The kid has followed after you, and you pick them up so they can take in the space station for the first time. 

“Okay,” You say, as they coo and look out the window at the various figures moving in the distance down below. “I’m going to go and make some soup. It won’t take more than a few minutes, but I need you to stay up here while I do it.” You take their lack of response as an affirmative, and place them in the cot with the blankets and the ball and more promises that you’ll be back very soon, then open the hatch with one last look and climb down. After some internal debate, you leave the hatch door open, figuring them getting in to trouble up there is more likely than trouble coming for them from down here. 

The food bin, only perfunctorily stocked when you first came on board, is getting worryingly low. Today though, after having spoken to Mando so openly earlier, you think you’ll have the courage to bring it up with him when he comes back. Maybe, although this thought seems less likely, you’ll ask for some of that job money he’s been promising and go shopping yourself on the next planet. The idea is an even mix of thrilling and terrifying. For now, the two of you can make due with powdered soup and recycled water.

Between set up of the pot and stove, and the actual time it takes to warm everything up, it can’t have been more than ten minutes. The open door lets in a breeze that’s slightly cooler than the rest of the ship, so maybe you stall a little, but everything is quiet up above so you figure you can spare the time. Once it’s warm enough, you shut off the gas to the stove, thinking idly about fuel and money and wondering how much Mando had to spend to pay off that security guard earlier. In the following silence, without the hissing of the stove, a sound catches your ear. A mechanical beeping, like a noise the ship might make, coming from outside, but it’s a lot closer than the other ambient noises of the space station. Almost like it’s coming from right outside the hatch. It takes you a moment to place it, but when you do, you look down. The only other time you heard that steady beeping was from your bracelet, but the gadget just sits on your wrist, dark and silent. You hear it again, definitely outside, definitely close. 

You’re glad later, when you have time to think about it, that Mando took the time to remind you about the guns. You always know they’re there, but his reminder gets you moving now when you otherwise might have stayed still. Walking to the weapons locker, you start to feel like you’re overreacting, giving in to a familiar anxiety, but the sound, still coming from somewhere behind you now, keeps you going. You know that sound, and if someone is looking to take you back to management then you aren’t going to go without a fight.

Despite all of this, you’re too slow. You’ve just opened the locker and taken out the most familiar blaster, the one Mando had tried to train you on, when a voice tells you to stop and put your hands up. When you turn back to the hatch, you see a figure walking up the ramp, arm extended, blaster pointing at you. In his other hand is a small black box with a blinking red light that’s emitting the sound. He looks like a man, but not quite human, with light green scales covering every bit of skin you can see under his beige shirt and pants, and a worn leather vest. 

“Looks like today is my lucky day.” He says, and when he talks, spiny ridges that run up both sides of his face move in a way that’s almost mesmerizing. Having assumed that your reaction to the sound was irrational, only makes the realization that something is happening that much more terrifying. You haven’t had a chance to raise the blaster in your hand, and it doesn’t look like he’s going to give you one. He moves further in to the ship, not looking away from you, not lowering his gun, and stops when he’s about six feet away. Far behind him, in the hanger of the space station, you can see two droids roll by, but for all the help they could offer you, they might as well be on another planet. 

“Where is it?” He asks, and even if your heart wasn’t racing, adrenaline making your hand shake against the blaster, and your mind wasn’t busy telling you that you were about to die, even if you could process new information on top of all of that, you would have no idea what he’s talking about. You don’t open your mouth or attempt to say anything.

Something is happening in your mind though, a mental replay of your life except, unlike your dreams, where you can only see the worst parts, it’s everything good that’s happened. It’s your mother, teaching you how to braid your hair, your father reading you to sleep. It’s the child, sitting at the window with you, and Mando, touching you like you’re more than an item, like you’re a person who’s desires matter. It all happens in an instant, but when it’s done, the fear goes with it.

“Drop the blaster, and tell me where the asset is.” He tries again.

Even if it was you, just you, on the ship, he would never get you to drop the gun. Mando is gone and you’re the only thing standing between the gunman and the child who, you can now say with absolute certainty, you would die for. He’s still telling you to drop it, threatening to shoot you, but you stay silent, need all your focus for what you’re going to do next. He starts moving towards you to knock you down, or wrestle the blaster from your grip, and there’s no more time to decide. You feel yourself tense. All you need to do is lift it fast enough, take him by surprise, get at least one shot off before you can’t anymore. The girl in the room couldn’t even convince herself to walk out of an unlocked door, but she didn’t have anyone worth fighting for. 

He’s getting closer and you’re bringing up your hand, but something else is moving too. The metal ball, an object you’ve seen and held so many times you recognize it without having to think, falls from the opening above the ladder just to the gunman’s left. You see it happen, and it doesn’t stop your hand from moving, the decision is already made, but when the ball hits the steel floor with a clank, the gunman turns to see what the noise was. Your hand comes up with the blaster until it’s level with his chest, and he’s still looking to the side when you fire. 

He’s standing too close to miss. You fire just once at first, squeezing with as much control as you can like Mando showed you, and his body jerks back. His blaster fires too, but his hand has lurched with the force of your shot and it goes wide, hitting the wall somewhere above your head. After that, there’s nothing to do but watch his body fall. It takes an eternity to hit the floor. Long enough for you to see smoke drifting out from the hole your blaster fire left in his chest. Long enough to see that the pupils of his eyes are elongated ovals, and when the lids close, they do so from the sides. Long enough to realize you just committed murder and when someone, some nameless authority figure, finds out they will take you away to prison. When he does finally hit the ground, it’s with a thump quieter than the one the ball made.

Now that it’s over, all the thoughts that had just been clambering for attention in your head disappear. You’re distant, numb and weightless, in a way that’s so familiar it’s like you never left your room. You watch from far away as your arm points to the ground and the blaster fires two more times, making the body on the ground jerk again. Not forty feet away, there must still be people going about their business. Is the sound of their work loud enough to cover up what you just did? If they looked in to the open hatch of the pre-imperial Razor Crest in docking bay 6, what would they see?

Before you can think too hard about that, or anything else, you see something in the corner of your eye and look up. It’s the child, poking their head through the opening from the upper deck. They look around for a moment before spotting you, and then they open their mouth to let out a happy cry. 

The next part of your life happens without your conscious input, and the memories of the minutes never return, but somehow you and the child end up in the pilot’s seat. It’s facing the closed cockpit door and you’re holding the kid in your arms so tightly it can’t be comfortable, but they’re quiet now, ears lowered and looking straight at you in a way that makes you want to say something comforting. You will, but first you have to remember how to speak. There’s nothing to indicate how much time has passed, the lights of the station coming through the cockpit windows haven’t changed since you first saw them, but as things come back in to focus you can feel your arm aching. You glance down as quickly as you can, not wanting to look away from the door for long, and see that you’re holding the blaster out, pointing it at the door. Your whole arm is shaking from the strain of keeping it up, but you don’t lower it, can’t remember what you’re waiting for except that someone could come through that door at any second, and they might not give you another chance to raise it. 

Even as you’re thinking it, there’s a noise on the other side of the door. You’ll have plenty of time to regret it later, but in the moment, you don’t hesitate. As soon as the cockpit door swishes open, you fire the blaster without waiting to see who’s on the other side. Mando grunts when the shot hits his chest plate, and gets knocked back. You can see it’s him, the thought reaches your hand before its fully articulated and stops you from firing again, but putting down the blaster is still difficult. He stands up and tells you it’s him, not to fire, but he doesn’t try to approach you again until you lower your arm. When you finally can, the relief of letting your sore muscles relax is incredible, and the blaster falls to the floor with a clunk. He comes forward then and picks it up off the ground, tucking it in to his belt. 

“Are you alright? Is he alright?” He says all in one breath as though he can’t tell. You nod. It’s all you can do. “Why didn’t try to hail me?” There’s no answer to that. You don’t remember how you got here, maybe you had tried, but, as far as you can tell, you had forgotten it was an option until he said something.

When you don’t respond, Mando asks what happened a few times until you’re finally able to tell him, though it’s unclear how much you manage to explain. The details get mixed up in your mind while you talk as though you can’t differentiate between which parts are important and which aren’t. It’s incredibly frustrating, but he lets you work through it, and eventually he seems to be satisfied and disappears below deck. You know he might come back with one of the guards, that they take you away and you’ll never see the child again, but he’s taken the blaster and there’s nothing to do now except wait. When he does return a few minutes later, it’s not with a guard, but two bowls of soup. Setting the kid down in the copilot’s seat so they can eat is difficult, but they seem calmer now that Mando is back, and you don’t want to upset them anymore. You take your own bowl when he hands it to you, grateful, but less hungry than you’ve ever been. He must have heated the pot back up because the bowl is hot in your hands. As soon as he leaves again, you set it on the floor and watch as the child slurps theirs, and you both listen as Mando makes noise downstairs. By the time the child finishes their soup and yours, Mando pulls himself back on to the upper deck, and you both turn to look at him from your respective seats. 

“Hatch is fixed,” he says, “We can leave now. Here, I got you this.” He hands over a black bundle to you, and something to the child as well, then leans further in to the cockpit. You watch, fascinated, as he screws the metal ball back in to place on the lever. The bundle he gave you turns out to be clothes and a pair of boots. It’s a black jumpsuit that looks similar to the one the woman earlier had been wearing, but there’s no belts or straps or sigil on the arm. Mando explains that it’s meant to be worn under a flight suit and it will keep you cool no matter what the temperature is outside. 

“Thank you.” You say when he’s done talking, but you can hear the strain in your voice when you say it. He must hear it too because he lowers himself until he’s squatting next to the chair and asks,

“Are you sure you’re alright?” You look at his helmet, at the black screens his eyes hide behind, the metallic angles by his cheeks. It’s tilted, just a little, to the side as he looks at you, and for the first time since you met him, you feel a strong desire to lift it off and see if his eyes are really looking at you the same way it feels like they are. You want to tell him something, but everything you want to say feels too big for words, so you just hold the clothes he bought you and stare at him instead. Finally, he says, “I shouldn’t have left you alone like that. I don’t know what I was thinking. I can’t thank you enough for protecting the child.”

His words make you look behind him, towards the child whose holding something in their hands. It’s the thing that Mando brought them, and it looks like the other metal ball, but larger, and covered in wavy ridges that circle around its surface. When he sees you looking, Mando reaches over and gently runs one of his fingers along the ridges without taking it out of the child’s hands. A small blue hologram of an animal you don’t recognize appears, projecting out from the surface of the ball. It’s furry and nonthreatening, and walks in a flickering circle before disappearing again. As soon as it’s gone, the child holds the ball out, and Mando repeats the motion, earning a giggle when the image reappears. 

“I didn’t think…” he starts again, “Anything would happen here. It’s been so quiet the last few weeks. I thought maybe some of the heat had died down.” He’s turned away from you now, looking at the child. “I should have told you, but I didn’t know if I could trust you, and I don’t really know how to explain it myself. The Empire, some left-over part of it, it looking for the child. He’s special, maybe unique, and I don’t think they’re going to stop coming for him.”

“What do you mean special?” The child is special to you of course, and to Mando, but they’re just a baby and he’s talking about them like they’re a wanted criminal. 

“He can…do things,” Mando sounds uncomfortable now, but he doesn’t stop playing with them while he talks, “I know you’ve noticed some. He can move things with his mind, I’ve seen it, and…other things too, I think. Earlier today, that woman wasn’t going to take the bribe, and then, she just did. Didn’t even count it.”

“You think the kid did that? Mando, he’s a baby. He doesn’t…” You trail off thinking about the way they had been reaching out in your arms just moments before the woman had changed her mind, seemingly for no reason. What Mando’s saying doesn’t make any sense, but he isn’t a fool. You have noticed things, but on top of everything else, this seems like too much. “That man wasn’t looking for a child, he said he was looking for a thing, an asset.”

Mando nods. “He is the asset. I was hired, too, to bring him in. I couldn’t leave him there though. I don’t know what they want with him, but it isn’t good. I shouldn’t have put you in this position. I’m sorry.”

“What’s going to happen to me now?” Thinking about the gunman again has reminded you of what you did. He probably has friends, a family. Are they looking for the kid too? It’s getting hard to focus on what’s important again, and everything Mando just told you about the child is getting jumbled up in the rest of your scattered thoughts. “I think…I killed that guy, right? What if someone finds out?”

“No one is going to find out. We’d know by now if he wasn’t alone, job’s done, and we’re leaving. As soon as you get out of my seat, that is.” He gets up, stretches, and adds, “I used to think smuggling was for a lower class of criminal, but without the guild, I guess that’s us now.”

“Are you sure?” You ask, looking out the window and down at the few people who are still milling around by their own ships. No one turns up to look at you.

“That I can’t fly while you’re in my seat? Yes.” Unsupervised the child has dropped their new toy and is reaching for the lever like they want their old one back. “Hey. Leave that alone.” Mando says. 

He offers his hand to you, and you take it, still holding the clothes and boots in your other one. Your legs feel weak after sitting so tensely for so long, and your arm is sore, but he takes the child on to his lap so you can sit in the other seat alone while he takes off. You try to reconcile everything he said with the complacent child sitting on his lap, but still can’t understand what a government, a failed government at that, could possibly want with them. Moving things with their mind? You had noticed a few strange things, but that still seemed like a stretch, maybe Mando has been in space for too long. 

It only takes a minute for him to pull out of the docking bay and leave the station. Despite what he said, you feel an intense relief when no ships pull out after you, demanding you turn yourself in to be punished for your crimes. When that doesn’t happen, it still takes time to return to normal, to feel your breathing as a steady thing, to regain some control over your thoughts, but eventually you feel yourself come back. After awhile, Mando asks if the soup was okay, and when you tell him you didn’t eat, he goes below and brings up something fresh and wrapped that he must have gotten at the station. You don’t ask what it is and he doesn’t offer, but you barely taste it anyways. Still, once you’ve eaten, the feeling of being okay intensifies. 

When you finish the food and your stomach settles, you get up and change in to the new clothes, sticking as close to the cockpit, and far away from the hole to the lower deck, as you can. Having him bring you clothes reminds you of the droid that used to trade out your clothes, whether you wanted it to or not, but this is Mando, and these clothes are like nothing the droid ever brought you. It’s all one piece, like your other outfit, but the pants go down to your ankles and the shirt sleeves down to your wrists, and the whole thing pulls over you easily and zips up snugly with a pull tab in the front. Mando was right, even though it covers you completely, the fabric is just as light and breathable as your other outfit. Once you’ve changed, you toss your old clothes in to the child’s cot to deal with later. The boots, which you find have a linen pair of socks rolled up inside them too, are heavy and press in to your feet uncomfortably. You take them off after only a few seconds and leave them in the corner before returning to the copilot’s seat. 

Mando is still holding the child, but he’s also trying to lean forward and fiddle with the console. A blue holo on the dash flickers in and out of focus in silence. You take the kid from him and he hands them over with a thanks. With them safe in your arms, and their new toy retrieved from the floor, the rest of the day starts to slip away. The only leftover now is a resolute unwillingness to go below deck, and, despite the fact that you’re exhausted, you just sit in the chair and drift off while Mando works. 

Eventually, he manages to receive the transmission, and the sudden sound from it pulls you out of a light doze. Now that the little blue figure is in focus, you feel a rush when you see they’re wearing full Mandalorian armor as well. 

“Din, I hope this reaches you,” The voice is female, but coming filtered out of her helmet gives it a familial connection to Mando in your mind. “We’ve found a suitable place to relocate for the time, and I’m sending you the coordinates. May they find you well.” The figure disappears then pops back up and repeats the message before he shuts it off. 

“Is that your name? Din.” You ask, and Mando says yes without looking up from the console. “Oh. I guess I thought it was Mando.”

“You thought my real name was Mando?” He looks up at you now, and it makes you laugh thinking how ridiculous it sounds now that you know it’s not the case.

“Well, that’s the only thing I’ve ever heard anyone call you.”

“Not many people know my real name.” He shrugs and, when you don’t respond, adds, “Do you have one? A name.”

“Sure, I have lots of names.” Now it’s your turn to shrug, shifting the child to your other knee to give the one they’ve been sitting on a rest. You hold your free hand up and count off on your fingers while you talk. “Sugar tits is always popular. Baby doll, sad eyes, expensive bitch-”

“Stop.” He snaps and grabs your hand before you can list anymore. You had been joking around, but he doesn’t sound amused.

To make up for it, you start to tell him your real name, then stop when it doesn’t come to mind. You had a name, you can almost remember it, but now that you’re thinking about it, it’s like it isn’t there. You think about home, about playing in the snow fields. You conjure up a memory, real or created for the moment you’re not sure, of your mother calling out to you and with a rush of relief it comes back. You can hear her calling out your name so clearly, it seems crazy that you had forgotten it at all. 

As soon as you remember, you tell him, trying to be serious like he is, and expect him to say something in return like ‘it’s nice’ or ‘pretty’ or something else you might have said to a client that gave you theirs. Instead, he nods and says thank you, as though it was a gift and not a meaningless combination of letters no one had used to refer to you in a very long time. 

This is followed by more silence, but Mando, Din, eventually breaks it in the way he has of starting conversations somewhere in the middle. 

“Do you want to go there?” He asks.

“Where?” You reply sleepily, not really caring where you go at all. 

“To meet my people. Maybe they can help, and we can’t keep moving like this; we’re too exposed.” 

“Then yes. It sounds like we should go there.”

“I think so too.” With that settled he falls silent again, but before the silence can stretch out again, you ask:

“Will you sleep with me tonight?” As soon as you say it, you regret it. What if he says no? You’ll have to go down and face everything alone. Even if you weren’t falling asleep sitting up, you’re going to have to pee at some point, but he doesn’t let you worry long. He just nods and agrees like it’s nothing, even though it’s so clearly not. Like him asking what you want isn’t nothing, or not getting mad every time you screw up, or forcing you to remember your name. None of it is nothing. 

Later, when the ship’s course is set, you fall asleep on your side in the cot with him curled up behind you, helmet so close behind your head you can hear him breathing. The door is open, and the child is sleeping in the cradle at your feet. You don’t think he’ll stay, can’t imagine all that armor is comfortable in this position, but he’s still there when you fall asleep. 

When you wake up, it’s from a nightmare. Scattered images of droids with clothes and thin blue airlocks slowly dissipate and are replaced by the ceiling of the cot. You’re coated in sweat despite the new clothes, and you can feel it clinging to your hair, sticking it to your head. Din is gone, and the cradle is empty too, and when you stand up, you notice something you hadn’t in your earlier exhaustion: the figure of the gunman, frozen in carbonite towards the back of the room, slightly slouched over even in its vertical position, as though Din had to prop him up before hastily pressing the button. 

It’s grotesque, especially so close on the heels of your troubled sleep, and the sight makes you feel sick. You climb the ladder as quickly as you can, only remembering to breathe once you’ve reached the top, but there’s no relief to be found up here either. The cockpit and the cot door are open, but neither Din nor the child are in sight. You walk towards the front of the ship feeling like you might still be asleep, might be having another nightmare. Out the window you can see that the ship has landed somewhere, nothing but sandy dunes stretching out to the horizon for miles and miles. You stop right behind the pilot’s seat and watch the sand move, creating tiny whirls before whatever delicate balance is holding the sand together snaps and it falls apart into individual grains again. 

When Din does come up behind you and puts his hand on your shoulder, you yelp and whip around, hitting your elbow on his chest plate in a way that makes your whole arm tingle. 

“I’m sorry.” You both say at the same time, but you’re just glad it’s him and not the frozen figure down below coming back for revenge. 

“We’re here,” he says while you rub your arm, “Come outside. There’s some people I want you to meet.”


	4. It's no Buckingham Palace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The reader meets the rest of Din's clan, and learns that she must confront her past to build a better future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, here it is, the penultimate (I'm pretty sure) chapter! I managed somehow to write some smut and also plot! Very proud of myself. Anyways, thank you again for reading and I've really enjoyed all the comments you've made!! I've been watching Clone Wars, which is a super bomb show, and make some minor mentions of stuff from it, but nothing that will get in the way if you haven't seen it :)

Chapter 4

Outside, the heat is unlike anything you’ve ever experienced. There are no clothes in the galaxy that could protect you from it, and the sun, directly overhead at this hour, is bright enough to be blinding. You stop on the ramp and bring your hand up to cover your eyes, trying to blink away the white spots that appear in front of them. Din waits for you to adjust. He’s already waited for you to put on the socks and shoes as well, and, despite the discomfort of wearing them, you’re glad. Out here, you can see the way the sun is baking the sand. Waves of heat shimmer above the ground like spatial distortions. 

Once your eyes adjust, buildings, beige, stucco rectangles that rise out of the ground like extensions of the sand, materialize in front of you and give off the same wavy distortions as the dunes. You’re on the outskirts of a small city, the feeling of being alone in the desert no more than an illusion created by the direction the ship was facing, and sand-colored structures spread out in front of you as far as you can see. 

As your new shoes slip along the surface of the sand, Din takes your hand to guide you through the city. The idea you will be meeting his clan is becoming more alarming the closer it gets to actually happening. You clomp after him in the boots, having to adjust to the way the sand pulls at them, drifting under your feet instead of compressing, and every few steps you stumble. The city is full of people – hanging out on stoops, doing business in open-air markets, walking the streets with a purpose like you and Din – and the sound of their chatter fills the hot air around you. 

Around one corner, rusted metal poles stick out of the ground with helmets dangling from the top. They’re storm trooper helmets, you recognize the look from customers who had worn the same getup, and it’s a clear warning to a government that's no longer supposed to exist. The white helmets had been a regular fixture in your room until several years ago when they had stopped coming, and you’ve only seen three such customers dressed like that in recent memory. Sticking out of the ground on poles, they make you think of what Din had said, about being hired by to take the child. If the Empire is attempting to regain some of their power in the galaxy, they clearly aren’t welcome here.

After wandering so long you’ve lost all sense of how to get back to the ship, the two of you come to a door set into a short building. It’s more of a hut really, in an alley that looks exactly like all the rest you had passed, minus the skewered helmets. Din inputs a code in to the door lock and it swishes open. When it shuts behind you, the cool air and relative darkness are a powerful relief. Instead of a small interior space, as the outside suggested, the front room is only an entryway housing a set of stairs that descend into the earth. Everything inside is the same textured beige as the outside, and now that the air isn’t burning in your lungs, you can smell the sand and dried mud. Lighted vents run along the bottom wall at each step and illuminate the walk down. 

At the end of the steps is a cramped hallway, if Din were any taller, he would have to duck, and it’s lit with the same vent-lights as the stairs. Along the hallway are several more closed doors, but it isn’t until you come to the first turn you start to hear any sounds other than your own shoes against the ground. The closer you get to the sounds, reminders that you’re about to be introduced to an unknown number of people and have no idea how you should act, the more Din’s hand feels like a lifeline than a guide.

When you do enter the doorway where the sounds are coming from, it leads to a large room, at least thirty feet across and with a taller ceiling than the hallway. There are no windows, there’s no way to know how far underground you are now, but the same lights line the walls along the floor and cast shifting shadows across the walls of the figures inside. A circular stone table with chairs stands in the center, and some of the chairs are already occupied. Around the room, other figures are standing or leaning against the walls, all of them look up at Din as you enter. Directly across from you, seated at the table, is the Mandalorian from the transmission. In person, you can see her helmet has been painted gold and her cape is made from luxurious-looking fur, and in her arms is the child, looking content. 

Glancing around the room, all you can see is armor and weapons. Not just covering the people, strapped to hips, backs and thighs, but also leaning against the walls and table, hanging off shelves and hooks bolted to the walls, and stacked on top of crates, full of explosive charges, that have been shoved against the edges of the room. Altogether, it’s more than you’ve ever seen, even travelling with a Mandalorian. You keep a grip on Din’s hand, feeling paranoid about all these people you don’t know. 

“This is the girl who’s helped me with the child.” He says. You’re squeezing his hand too tightly, but can’t stop yourself, are worried that he might make you speak, but he doesn’t attempt to pull you forward. Several of the helmets nod in your direction; most stay still.

“First you force us to abandoned the covert, and now you bring outsiders here.” The grumbled complaint comes from a Mando in bulky armor leaning against the wall to the left. On his helmet is a square box sticking up like an antenna. Some of the others in the room nod or mumble in agreement at his words. Din’s cape is right in front of you, and the desire to hide in it almost overrides how embarrassing the action would be. Before he can answer, the Mandalorian with the fur cape holds up her free hand, and the room falls in to a restless quiet. 

“Unless you plan on raising the foundlings yourself,” She says, “I suggest you remain silent. The girl has demonstrated loyalty to one of our own and, if we are to survive these trying times, we cannot be so eager to reject help when it’s offered.” Her voice rises clearly above the muttering, and her words are like a balm on the room, as well as your own anxiety. The other Mandos settle down. Din walks you to a chair next to her and pulls it out so you can sit. As soon as you do, the child is handed over to you as though the speaker is eager to prove her point about the foundlings. Or maybe she just wants to have both her arms free again. Holding the kid against you makes it easier to remember why you’re here, and you adjust their clothes and brush the hairs on their ears with your fingers to give yourself something to do. 

Now that you’ve been introduced, Din and the other Mandalorians fall in to a conversation that doesn’t require your input. There’s about ten in the room when you first arrive, but they come and go as the discussion develops. The most you see at any one time is no more than twenty. Some of what they say is heartbreaking. Apparently, several planets continue to ban the group, calling them inciters of violence and a galactic terrorist organization. From what you can tell, there are no foundlings here except the one in your arms. Several others are spoken of, but even in the closed room, locations aren't mentioned. At one point, a Mando with a purple stripe of paint running across his chest bring up something called Death Watch, and the room erupts in to an argument. Some assert it was nothing but a band of traitorous rebels whose methods created a civil war on Mandalore. Others defend them and say they were heroes, fighting for a sacred way of life that would have otherwise been lost. No consensus is reached until, when it becomes clear the fight might start getting physical, the fur-caped Mando breaks up the discussion and calls for silence again.

After this, the talk turns to more practical matters. Food, money, and permanent settlements are deliberated. The current quarters are considered unacceptable in the long-term due to size, exposure, and lack of a heat source sufficient enough to mold their armor. Din listens more than he speaks, but it’s clear that he, along with several others, are mostly concerned that any new settlement must have space to train and house the foundlings. Several times, something conclusive is said and is followed by a chorus of ‘this is the way’. It would have been disconcerting if you hadn’t heard Din say the same thing several times before, but hearing it echo around the room, especially after the earlier bickering, is oddly comforting. 

Mostly, you and the child stay quiet. Several times, Fur-cape turns to you to ask basic questions while the other Mandos talk among themselves. What planets have you visited? Languages do you speak? Skills you possess? The lists are all embarrassingly short, but another Mando sitting next to you, the only one in the room without a cape on her back, saves you from your stumbling answer to the last question by remarking that child care is an extremely valuable skill on its own. 

Still, the conversation doesn’t seem to need you at all, and you’re just about to ask Din where the nearest refresher is, still feeling sticky from your nightmares and the hellishly hot walk through the city, when the conversation shifts to his recent run-in with the Empire. 

“There’s nothing but dregs left, and anyone who takes a job from them risks dishonoring the clan.” Says grumbling Antenna-Head. He isn’t looking towards Din when he says it, but even as a stranger here, you feel his intent is clear. 

“Dregs or not, the Empire clearly has a hoard of beskar. Should we leave it in their hands because we’re afraid of dishonor?” No-Cape says from beside you, and the mention of beskar so close to the Empire brings back the memory of those helmets on the street. It seems like an odd connection, you know beskar is the metal the Mandalorians wear. Although, now that you think about it, you’re not sure Din ever mentioned what kind of metal his armor was made out of. 

“They are weak, we should devote our time to clearing the rest of the imps out now.” Calls out someone else.

“Not as weak as you think.” Says Din.

“Maybe for you.” The Mando snaps back.

“Exposing ourselves to seek revenge now would be foolish, and could doom the clan.” Fur-cape replies. 

As they argue, your mind drifts. You remember the storm troopers now, three of them, and how they had all come in to your room together, in full gear. Unlike Din, they had stripped off their armor as soon as the door was closed, and the memory of what happened next is painful to think about. This is not the right time for that, and you look at the spot near your chest where the child’s hand is wrapped around your finger instead. 

“The beskar belongs to us. It’s our duty to retrieve it.” Antenna-head is saying. 

“And how do you plan to do that while having nothing to do with the empire?” Din asks. 

It couldn’t have happened more than a few weeks – or months or days with the way time in that room had passed – before Din had taken you away from that place for good, but now that you’re thinking about beskar, you’re almost certain the storm troopers had mentioned it as well. At the very least, it seems to have connected itself to the image of those helmets in your mind, and you can’t imagine where else you would have heard it before meeting Din. 

“Not taking jobs with those animals is a lot different from hunting them down and taking back what’s ours.” Says Antenna-head. He’s not grumbling anymore. 

“If you try to hunt them down, you’re the one who’s going to get killed.” As he speaks, Din pulls away from the wall behind you, voice rising as well. The troopers had been arguing too. Not about the beskar, but the job they had been on. You remember one of them saying it was so simple, droids could do it. 

“All of this is pointless talk. We don’t even know where the empire is, let alone where they’re hiding the beskar.” Purple-stripe says, standing up while he talks as though he thinks it might be necessary to hold the ground between Antenna-head and Din. Hiding the beskar, you think, yes that’s it. The troopers had mentioned beskar and were arguing about the job transferring it. Former soldiers turned delivery boys, and they had taken their frustration with the situation out on you. 

“There are rumors,” says a Mando with a large gouge across her chest plate, “I’ve heard them out on jobs, of storm troopers pawning beskar and claiming they were ordered to transfer loads of it.”

“Yes, I’ve heard that too!” You say so suddenly, the baby lets out a surprised coo. It’s exciting, hearing your blurry memory be confirmed at the same moment you rediscovered it yourself, but you didn’t expect the way every helmet in the room turns to look at you. “I just,” you continue when the silence makes it clear you’re expected to, “…Met some troopers, and they were arguing about that. Frustrated with their pay, or something, and saying that, if the empire wanted all this beskar moved, they should have gotten the droids to do it.” Din is looking at you too, and you wish you could see his face, or had even the slightest inkling what he was thinking.

“Image that,” Says Antenna-head, before anyone else has a chance to speak, “Sounds like your whore’s been servicing those Empire dogs too.”

The comment makes you feel worse than the one he made when you first entered the room. Whore, that’s another one of your names, though it doesn't sound anything like the one you were given as a child. Next to you, Din walks forward, taking the security of his presence with him, and shoves Purple-stripe roughly out of the way. He’s already pulling back his elbow to throw a punch before he reaches his target, intentions clear, and Antenna-head gets his arm up with plenty of time to block it. The other Mando counters immediately, and lands a low punch right against Din’s exposed side, but when he moves in for another one, Din grabs his arm and uses the momentum meant for the blow to twist their bodies and kick his opponent’s knee from behind. Antenna-head drops to the ground with a grunt. No one else in the room attempts to get between them, even Purple-stripe steps back to give them room. You rub the child’s ears gently to comfort both them and yourself. 

Din drops to his knees too, and wraps his arm around his opponent’s neck from behind. For a moment, it looks like he has the upper hand, but Antenna-head grabs out blindly behind him, trying to get a hold on Din’s helmet, but when he can’t, hooks his fingers under Din’s shoulder pauldrons instead. He uses it for leverage and, in a truly incredible display of strength, heaves Din over his head and throws him to the ground. Both of them jump to their feet with speed that would be impressive even if they weren’t wearing enough armor to weigh down a capable pack animal. They reach out for each other, but, matched in raw strength, neither seems able to break the other’s grip. Just as it’s starting to look like a stalemate, Antenna-head feints and gets in under Din’s defenses, kicking his leg out like a piston straight in to Din’s chest plate and sending him reeling back. 

Before you have time to react, a strong pair of hands lifts you out of the chair and pulls you and the child away half a second before Din crashes in to the place you were just occupying, his helmet smacking in to the stone table. It’s Fur-cape who’s pulled you out of the way, she’s still griping your arms and maneuvering you in the same effortless way Din does when he wants you to be somewhere else. You want to ask her to make them stop, but before you can Din pulls himself back up. Over the past month, you’ve gotten used to the way he moves, could probably pick him out from the other Mandos even if he changed his armor, but when he stands up in front of you now, it’s like you don’t recognize him at all. Shoulders squared, steps heavy, he walks forward again with nothing but intent and raw power. 

Antenna-head brings his hands up to fight him off again, but no punches are thrown. Just to the right of the fighters are several crates stacked with guns, and, on a box about shin-height, several metal-working tools have been left out. You don’t notice them, but Din does. While his opponent sets his body’s stance for a fight that isn’t going to happen, he brings down his boot on the head of a long hammer, hanging just over the edge of the box. The handle flips up in to his waiting hand, his shoulders drop down and his hips twist. When his arm comes back up, hammer in hand, the full weight of his body is behind the swing. There’s no time for the other Mando to prepare, the entire move takes only a second to execute, and the mallet hits his helmet with a sound that makes your ears ring. Antenna-head’s helmet jerks to the side with the force of the blow, and he slumps to the ground with a moan. 

No-cape makes a pained ‘oof’ sound in sympathy, and someone else in the room lets out a low whistle, but none of them move to help him up. Din sets the mallet back down where he found it, walks back over to where you and Fur-cape are standing, rights the chair you had been sitting in with more force than necessary, and just holds it until you sit back down. Once you do, he returns to his spot against the wall. Across the room, Antenna-head manages to pull himself up with a series of stilted, pained movements and walks out the door to lick his wounds in private. Fur-cape breaks the silence that follows:

“You were saying,” She sits back in her own chair and looks towards you, “you heard from the source, Storm Troopers have indeed been ordered to relocate empire spoils to a central location.” 

Had you been saying that? The last few minutes have completely wiped your mind of any of the old memories it had been trying to piece together before, but the room is focused on you again so you have to say something. “Yes. I…well, they, were.” You can’t stop yourself from thinking about how he had called you a whore. As far as he was concerned, it invalidated anything else you were going to say. Maybe the other Mandos thought that as well. You wish you had never said anything at all. This is a room full of seasoned fighters, people who have spent their entire lives training for a purpose, learning valuable skills, living their lives while you had just been watching yours pass by. Can you really have anything of worth to offer them? It had been stupid to think you could tell this story without it being obvious why you had heard it. A whore servicing Empire dogs. The thought that you will have to continue now, context clear to everyone in the room, is too much. 

You, and everyone else in the room, can hear the way your voice cracks when you say, “Excuse me.”

You stand up on shaky legs and hand the child to Din. Walking out of the room is like walking through a gauntlet, but, just like with Antenna-head, none of them move to stop you. It’s easier to just focus on moving, putting distance between yourself and the room full of people you can’t stand to cry in front of, than to imagine what they must be thinking of you as you leave. 

Outside of the room, with no idea what you're going to do now, you turn the opposite direction as you came in. You want to be alone, if you can, not to leave. The hallway continues at a slight slope downwards, past more doors and several turns, until you finally come to a staircase leading even further underground. At the bottom, you sit on the last step and pull at the laces of your shoes with fingers that don’t want to cooperate. Down here, the air is even cooler and filled with a mineral scent, as though there is a reservoir nearby of natural water. Shoes finally untied, you rip them off and toss them aside along with the socks. With that done, and the silence around you complete, there’s nothing left to do but cry.

It’s been building up inside you for a long time, and, now that you’re alone, comes without restraint. Huge sobs that make your chest shudder when you’re able to pull breath back in, followed by wretched whimpers that sound so deperate hearing them only makes you sob harder. It’s less about the tears, and more about expressing some overwhelming grief that has been festering inside you; some of it for many years, and some more recent. The attack goes on forever, paralyzing you until it’s run its course, and every time you think the tears will stop, another painful memory materializes and they start all over again. 

When it is finally done, the sobs tapering off until your breath comes in steady again and your chest no longer feels like it’s being compressed by some invisible force, you think you’ll be embarrassed by how you left the Mandalorian council, and Din, but there’s no space left for embarrassment inside you. There’s nothing but emptiness where before an entire ocean of feelings had been, overriding your ability to think clearly. Wiping your eyes on the sleeves of your new clothes, you can see that you’ve tossed your shoes several feet away in your haste to get them off. They sit there, like a reminder of your new life and how ill-fitted you are for it, as you pull yourself together.

“You don’t like the shoes?” Din asks from behind you. It’s not a surprise, you could hear the sounds of someone coming down the steps above you, but it’s still nice that it’s him and not someone else. Turning around, you can see he has the child in his arms still. They both look at you, and the silhouette of the rifle on his back makes crisscrossing shadows on the walls and ceiling above. 

“They’re uncomfortable.” You say, voice still hoarse from your earlier sobs.

“You’ll get used to it,” He responds. "You can get used to anything." You know it’s true, so you pick them up, but don’t put them back on yet.

Instead, you say, “I’m sorry I embarrassed you like that.” The staircase is still quiet except for the two of you, the others far enough away to afford you some privacy. Din sits down on the steps so you’re standing over him and lets out a weary sigh. 

“You aren’t the one who embarrassed me.” He says, “It’s not always like that. Things have been…difficult lately.” 

You have no idea how to respond, no desire to bring any new emotions into your exhausted heart so soon after purging the others, but you do want to clarify what you had said earlier. In case he’s still under the impression you might be helpful to him, or the tribe. 

“I shouldn’t have said anything. I don’t remember anything useful; I was just being stupid.” The child looks between your faces as though they want to be a part of the conversation too. Din runs his hand along the top of their head, looking past you, deeper into the hallway that leads away from the bottom of the stairs.

“Do you think they said anything specific? Coordinates or the name of the planet they were going to. Anything like that?” He asks. You notice again how fresh the air is down here. There must be a natural spring somewhere, but when he stops talking the silence is complete, no running or dripping water.

“If they did, I can’t remember. It’s not like…they weren’t talking to me, and I wasn’t trying to listen. I only remembered it happened at all because everyone was talking about it. And those helmets we saw earlier.”

“But it’s possible they said something you don’t remember.” It’s a statement, not a question.

“Sure. It’s possible.” You agree. Possible that you missed something so important because you were too busy pretending you didn’t exist to care. Possible he should have just left you where he found you and saved himself the trouble. You hope he’ll let you return to the ship with the child until it’s time to leave, don’t think you’ll be able to face the other Mandos again.

“Okay.” His metallic voice is full of resignation, though you can’t imagine why. Then, without changing his tone, he asks, “How do you feel about droids?”

You let out a huff of breath that’s almost a laugh, knowing exactly how he feels about them. Never on the ship. Never around the child. Not even the most benevolent protocol droid was exempt from these rules. Your own feelings are more ambivalent. Droids are just things, like pipes and ships and guns are just things. Frightening in the right context, but only existing because they were designed to carry out specific tasks. 

“I hated the droid that used to bring me my clothes. Fought with it a few times, even. All one-sided. I don’t think they programmed it to talk.” It’s true, but not an answer to his question, so you shrug and add, “I don’t mind them though. It’s not really something I think about.” 

Din stands, you hadn’t realized how different it was to be the tall one for once until he’s standing over you again. “Good,” He says, “A droid should be able to access the data stored in your bracelet, and disengage the implant too.”

“Where are we going to find a droid like that?” You’re thinking about management and the mess left behind when you fled. It seems unlikely they would offer.

“That’s not what I’m worried about.” But he doesn’t clarify what about having a droid removing your bracelet worries him. 

The three of you walk back up the stairs, and at the top he sets the child on the floor so they can toddle behind. He leads the two of you through the hallway, past the room everyone had gathered in before, empty now, and finally stops at a door indistinguishable from all the others you’ve passed. On the other side is a small room, refresher visible through another door in the back, twin bed against the wall, and a work bench with a chair taking up most of the remaining space. No windows, still too far below ground even for a skylight. 

“My room is just across from here.” He says when you walk inside.

“You’re not staying?” You’d rather stay in the ship, but don’t want to offend him by saying so. 

“I have to eat, and sleep. No one will bother you here.” There’s no argument for that, so you let him go without a word after he lifts the child on to the bed. 

You wash in the refresher, first your body, then your clothes which you leave hanging on the faucet to dry. When you’re done, you bundle up in the one brown blanket on the bed, so that you and the child look like you’re wearing matching clothes. They’re wide awake and babbling, so you try to be enthusiastic for them and talk for a bit as though the two of you are having a conversation. Maybe, in a way, you are. Sitting together on the bed, them in your arms, blanket wrapped around you both, you ask what they think of this place. They stay silent when you worry what the other Mandos must think of you, but babble a bit when you admit you don’t want Din, or anyone else for that matter, to see whatever record of your previous life the bracelet might contain. The two of you agree Din is equal parts terrifying and beautiful. Neither of you gets any sleepier. 

The vents light everything from the floor, casting shadows around the room, and, thinking about the toy left on the ship, you get an idea. It takes some maneuvering to get the back of the desk positioned in front of one of the lights. The child watches, and you remember what Din had said about them being able to move objects without touching them, but nothing like that happens as you struggle with the heavy desk. Finally, it’s in a good spot, and the two of you get situated on the floor between it and the wall; you in the blanket, them in their clothes. The kid catches on quick when you link your hands together, and the lights turn the shadows into birds and fish and other critters on the solid back of the desk. It’s an old trick, and not one you’re particularly good at, but the child doesn’t know that. They look between your hands and the shadows with eyes so wide you might as well have just revealed yourself to be a god. 

When they hold their own hands up, you help fold their fingers so the shadows change. Physiologically, you doubt they’ll ever be good at this game, but there’s no one in this room to judge either of you, or the simple shapes your hands make. After you’ve been at it for some time, Din comes back and finds the two of you like that, cramped between the desk and the wall. The stress of the past few days seems very far away.

“I thought you were going to bed.” You say, when you see him come in.

“Not tired. What are you doing?”

“Trying to teach your son something that doesn’t involve guns.” You hope your tone makes it clear that you’re teasing and not critiquing his parenting style. After all, he had grown up around weapons, and the child almost certainly would too. This is the way. 

The pod enters in behind him, stacked high with blankets and the child’s toy. Din spreads out the blankets on the bed, all except for one, and the toy, which he leaves in the pod. He picks the child up from the floor and places them inside too. When you stand up, you have to take a moment to stretch all your muscles after sitting for so long. 

“Are your clothes uncomfortable too?” He asks, shutting the door to the hallway as you stretch. 

“What? No, they’re perfect.” You look behind you to the open refresher door where you can see your jumpsuit, still dripping on the stone floor. “I just thought they could use a wash.” The question seems hypocritical since the color of his tunic and pants are now a light tan, indicating he had changed them. You point this out. 

“I can bring you some fresh ones too.” He says, but when you reach out to feel the fabric it’s scratchy, thick, and double-woven to provide extra padding under the armor. Nothing at all like the jumpsuit he bought you. You’re already shaking your head no as soon as you touch it. He picks the blanket up from the floor and wraps it around you like you might be cold. Inside the cradle, the child yawns. 

“It’s fine. Mine will be dry soon.”

With the door closed and the cradle inside, there’s barely enough room in here for both of you to stand, so you lay down on the bed to give him some space if he wants it. The blankets Din brought are from the ship, and, unlike the other one, they smell familiar. Once you’re settled, he pushes the work bench back in to place, sits down, and starts pulling things from his belts and laying them out. His blaster, ammo, charges, more daggers than any one person could need. When he’s done he pulls the belts off too and lays them on the bench as well, disassembling and wiping down everything as needed, while you watch from the bed.

“I’m sorry again about earlier.” You say. “I really can’t remember. I would tell you if I could.”

“I know. I trust you.” It’s a powerful thing for him to say, but there’s no guarantee it’s true. 

“No one’s ever told me that before.” You say, and that, as far as you can remember, is true. Although, he has no guarantee about that either. He doesn’t look up, anyways, doesn’t answer. Safe in the pod, the child lays back. The blanket is too warm, but you don’t take it off, or get up and dress, or do anything but lay back and watch Din’s hands as he works.

“Do you ever wish you could be someone else?” You ask after several minutes of silence, thinking about the other Mandalorians looking so unfazed earlier, and how you had to leave the room. You don’t think he’ll answer, but after he spends a few more seconds inspecting the hilt on one of his daggers, he nods hesitantly then changes his mind and shakes his head instead. 

“Sometimes I wish…that I could be more than one person.” He says. It’s an interesting idea, one you hadn’t considered, and you lay back to think about it. Before you can find out more, he beats you to the punch and asks, “Do you?” as if it wasn’t obvious. 

“Are you asking if I’m glad I’m a whore?” It’s rhetorical, and you don’t give him time to answer before saying, “I wish I could be like you. I feel like my whole life has been wasted. What can I possibly do to make up for it now?” The ceiling is textured like the stucco walls, and the longer you look, the more images you can see in its bumps and ridges. After a pause so long it seems like the conversation is over, Din says:

“You matter to him,” He points to the cradle where the child is now sleeping, “and to me.”

“Even after I embarrassed you today?”

“Stop saying that.” From the pod comes a tiny snore, and Din drops his voice lower. “I already told you, you didn’t.”

“Do you really think there’s something on my bracelet that could help?”

“If you don’t want to risk it, it’s fine. You don’t have to.”

“No! I do.” You push the blanket off and sit up, but try to keep your voice low as well, “If something good can come out of all that. I want it to.”

“If something goes wrong, you could die.” He finally looks up at you when he says it.

“Give me one example of something you’ve done where that wasn’t true too, and maybe I’ll change my mind.” He looks at you, at the cradle, at the weapons and ammo by his hands, and then just shrugs and goes back to what he was doing. “That’s what I thought.” You say, but because you don’t want to fight, don’t want him to leave, you add, “I just want you to know I would do it for you.”

“Do you think I’ll hurt you if you don’t? Is that why you slept with me the other night? Why you left? Because you’re afraid of me?” 

“You think I’m afraid of you?” Din was frightening, the events earlier had confirmed that again if there was any question, but you've seen enough of the evil the universe has to offer to know the difference.

“I think…I’m taking advantage of you.” He puts the dagger he’s holding down and leans over to pull the blanket back around your shoulders. The room is so small, he doesn’t have to get off the chair to reach. 

“I’m not afraid of you, Din. I left because I couldn’t sit there with your whole tribe knowing who I was, what they did to me, and I had sex with you because I care about you. I am afraid that you’ll get tired of me fucking up all the time, but mostly I just want to make you happy because you’re beautiful, and kind, and you deserve it.”

He’s still leaning forward, holding the blanket against you, but his helmet doesn’t look intimidating in this light. Maybe, you’re just more used to it now. Maybe, you’ve seen enough of the man underneath to know there’s nothing to be afraid of when he looks at you like this. Still, you can feel yourself blushing after saying all of that out loud, and hope he assumes it’s a flush from the warm blanket or this hellishly hot planet in general. 

“Is that the truth?” He asks. 

Instead of answering, you scoot forward, just a little, so you can press your forehead against his helmet. It’s cool compared to your own skin, so you bring your hands up too, to press against his chest plate, just under where his arms are holding the blanket against you.

“Were you telling the truth earlier? When you said you trusted me.” You whisper.

“Yes.” He answers, and he doesn’t pull away from you. The memory of how he moved earlier, when he had enough of the fight and decided to end it, resurfaces. Yes, you are a little afraid of him, but he doesn’t need to know that. All he needs to know is that you care about him, want him to be happy, and want him to feel safe with you in the same way he makes you feel safe.

“How much of this can I take off?” You ask when it’s clear he’s not going to go back to what he was doing. 

“The shoulders.” He says quietly, and you slide your hands along the edge of his pauldrons until you find the straps holding them on. It takes forever to figure out how to get them off, but he doesn’t move to help, and there’s no rush. When his arms get in the way, he lowers them, and the blanket falls off your shoulders letting in a rush of cool air. When you do finally get the first shoulder plate off, it’s ridiculous how much the thing weighs. You hold it with two hands, afraid of dropping it, but he takes it from you one-handed and sets it on the desk behind him without looking. The second one is easier, now that you know what to look for, and he takes it from you wordlessly as well.

When they’re off, his silhouette has shrunk down slightly, but not as much as you might have guessed. He reaches his own gloves down in to the space between his helmet and chest plate to pull out the fabric of his cape. After a moment, you realize he’s going to have to slide the whole thing up over his helmet, and, to give him some privacy while he works it off, you get up, taking the opportunity to push the cradle in to the open door of the refresher and shut it. The child, one of their tiny hands curled around the blanket Din brought, doesn’t stir.

When you turn back around, he’s standing right behind you, cape laying across the chair. You can see his neck exposed now, above his collar, and his chest plate looks oddly skeletal without the extra fabric bunched up beneath it. He takes your hand and guides it to another strap against his side, right below his ribs, and you unclasp that one too. Then the one just above it, and the same on the other side. The last strap, carrying the tension of the other three, gets stuck, and he has to wrap his hand around yours and pull to get it free. Undone, the front and back plate hang loose, and he pulls them both over his helmet and sets them on the chair with the cape.

Once it’s uncovered, there’s no stopping your hands from going to his chest and stomach. How could you have thought the fabric was scratchy earlier? It feels like silk now, bunching in your hands as you run them over his solid body, but when you press them against a spot on his upper stomach, just below where his ribs meet, he lets out a sharp breath.

“Is that too much?” You ask, worried you’ve crossed the line.

“No, I’m just,” He pulls up his shirt so you can see the ill-defined red mark on his chest where your hands have just been. “Still sore.”

It’s where the other Mando had kicked him, of course, and you feel terrible for forgetting already. Something about Din makes it seem like he can’t get hurt, or would heal instantly, but that’s obviously not the case. Under all his armor, there’s still a body getting knocked around with it. He drops his shirt back down, covering the mark, and holds his hands out, palms up.

“You can take these off too, if you want.”

You do. Fashioned like two-piece gauntlets, you have to pull his gloves off first before you can take off the wrist guards. Freeing his hands is so distracting, though. Every time you’ve seen them, it’s always in this context, and now it’s like your body has been trained to respond to his rough palms, short nails, long fingers. There’s no keeping the thoughts of how he had touched you last time away. Heat spreads across your lower stomach and down your thighs, unrelated to the temperature of the room. He doesn’t stop you as you run your fingers across his, down his palm, to his wrist, and then back up again, but his helmet falls forward a little, and you hear him let out a shaky breath. 

Once you’ve touched every inch of his hands at least once, you move on, pulling his wrist guards off the same way you had his gloves. They join the chest plate on the chair. When you’re done, he brings his hand up to your face and rests it on your cheek. You tilt your head back, hoping he’ll touch you lower, or more, or the same way. It doesn’t matter, all of it feels amazing. There are a thousand reasons why it shouldn’t, but none of them apply to Din. What has he done but rescue you, protect you? The only other things you can think of make you want him to touch you more. He holds your face in his palm and runs his thumb over your lips. Your mouth opens, but his thumb stays where it is, rubbing and caressing until you can hear your heart beating in your ears like an internal drum. 

You’re breathing heavily through your mouth, right on his hand, and your feet slowly inch apart on the rough floor as though your legs don’t want to be together anymore. The whole time he just looks at you, barely moving except for his chest which rises and falls almost as rapidly as your own. You let him watch, let him touch you. There isn’t anything you own he hasn’t given you, but if there was, he could have that too. 

When he does finally pull away, you take the chance to ask if you can remove his leg guards too. He nods, and you sink down to your knees. But when you grab on to his leg to steady yourself and undo the strap, he lets out a low groan. 

“Oh, fuck.” He says, like whatever you just did might kill him. Your fingers squeeze in to his leg again, a little harder this time, and he groans again, enjoying it. His legs shake a little, but he stays upright while you start working at the new straps. You don’t tease him again, or at least you try not to, but the leg guards take almost as much time to remove as his shoulder pauldrons had, and there’s no helping the way your fingers have to press against his thighs looking for the right place to pull to get them loose.

By the time you manage to get them both off and on to the floor, the sound of his heavy breathing has completely filled the small room. There’s no missing the way his dick has grown harder in his pants the longer you struggle. When you’re standing again, he doesn’t waste any time, just grabs you but the waist and turns you both around, tossing you down on the bed. Instead of laying on top of you, he puts his boot on the edge of the mattress pad and undoes the laces with more finesse than you had managed your own earlier. Both of his boots come off, then his socks, but he stops there and leaves his shirt and pants in place. There’s nowhere on the bed for him except between your legs.

He kneels between them, hovering over you again, but he looks so soft in this light, with most of his armor gone, nothing but the helmet left. You watch the way it moves, trying to decide what parts of you he’s looking at, as he run his hands up your legs and back down again. For the first time, it feels like he’s the one who’s more exposed than you are. 

Your eyes fall closed while his hands explore. There’s a place they brush against on your inner thigh that makes your hips lift off the bed, and another one against your ribs that drags a breathy moan out of you, but there’s no pretending, no need to make noise if you don’t want to. He doesn’t stop, not when his fingers graze over your nipples or across your neck, but his touches get harder, more needy, the longer he goes. Gentle and light at first, he starts pressing down, especially in the places that made you react the first time, and your legs fall apart wider, despite the fact he fits perfectly between them now without his armor. The more his fingers stay away from where you want them, the less your body seems to be able to control itself. You lift your hips, try to tell him what you want, but it’s not until you take hold of his hand and guide it slowly downwards that he finally gives in. 

He slips his finger inside you, and, as your head presses back in to the mattress, you both hear the soft groan that escapes you. Wanting, needing, him like this makes it impossible to think of anything else. He’s the beginning and end of the universe, and when his finger slips out of you and slides back in, the two of you are the only people in existence. Nothing should feel as good as it does when touches you like this. When he curls his finger inside you and uses his thumb against you like he had the last time, your hands ball up in the blankets below you. His other hand is gripping your leg at the thigh, bare fingers holding on tight enough to leave marks you won’t see until later.

It’s not enough, like this, and you want the rest of him inside you, but don’t know how to ask and can’t bring yourself to make him stop what he’s doing. Not when that alone is making your toes curl and the muscles in your hips clench with pleasure every so often. It’s not until he brings the hand on your thigh up towards your face to touch your lips again, that you manage to say:

“Lay down on your back. I want you inside me.” 

“Mmm, yeah.” Is all he manages to say, but he pulls his fingers away and wraps his arms around your back. He pulls you up, weightless in his arms again, and flips both of you around so you’re on top now, breasts pressed against his chest with nothing but the fabric of his shirt between you. You sit up, bare butt pressing against his hard dick still trapped in his pants. It feels nice, sitting over him like this. In this position, it feels like you get to decide what happens next. He brings his hands up to his head and rests them behind his helmet, further cementing the feeling. Before you take your weight off of him, to get the bindings on his pants open, you roll your hips back and forth, feeling him, hard, beneath you, and leaving a damp spot on the linen between your legs. 

His helmet falls to the side, and he moans. Getting loud again so you know you’re on the right track. You repeat the action, and his hands leave back of his helmet to go to the wall instead where they press against the stucco until you can see the strain in his wrists and knuckles. He’s so beautiful, you feel so powerful making him look like this, but you can’t stall any longer. Not when the feeling of him pressing against you is bringing back so many memories of having him inside you.

After everything today, it feels like your fingers should be good at undoing laces by now, but they still struggle, trembling against his stomach, until he takes pity and brings his hands down to help you. He lifts his hips off the bed, and you pull the pants down just far enough to be out of the way. Just far enough to expose his dick, the soft, curly hair above it, and the angles of his hip bones. You look at his black visor, watching, while your hand reaches down to his dick and tilts it up just enough, until the angle is right to sink back down. His hands hold your thighs, squeezing tightly while you inch down lower, adjusting to the stretch. 

You fuck like that, slowly, with his hands gripping your thighs as you lift up and down, and yours clinging tightly to the fabric of his shirt, using his sturdy chest for leverage to keep your hips moving. You’re breathing through your mouth, because of the exertion and how incredible everything feels, but he doesn’t seem to be breathing at all. Just gasping shakily, or moaning, or the occasional word like, ‘Yes’, ‘There’, and “Good’. 

Every time he falls silent, you adjust the angle of your hips, or put all your weight down and just rock against him like that, until he starts up again. It’s not like either of the other times. Not him taking pleasure from you, or pleasuring you. This time its you controlling the pace, watching his arms tremble and his shoulders push in to the mattress when you do something just right, and when you decide to be rougher, lifting your hips up until he almost slips out and then bringing them back down with enough force to rock the small bed on its frame, he can’t do anything but lay there and let you. 

You can tell when he’s getting close. His hands on your thighs becoming painful as his moans turn into more words, falling out of his mouth like he doesn’t know what he’s saying. Most of it is unintelligible, some of it is obscene, and the rest is so sweet it makes you want to love him. More promises, that he’ll protect you and take care of you, and some begging that you won’t stop, will stay with him. 

Eventually, it’s too much, he can’t let you set the pace anymore, and he takes one of his hands off your legs and wraps it around you back, pulling you down against his chest and thrusting up into you. The new angle hits a spot so deep inside you, it makes you wish you had been doing this all along. He tells you how good it feels, how good you feel, and then his voice cuts off into something closer to a whimper. He holds you so tight, there's no pulling away unless he let you. 

His final thrust hits inside you at a perfect angle. When he comes, he just holds the position, saying your name over and over again, and, for a moment, a feeling approximating the one he had given you before sweeps through your body. It’s not the same, but it is amazing, and by the time he finally releases you and falls back on to the mattress, you feel blissfully content. Sweat is pooling in all the places where your bodies meet and making your hair damp again so soon after you had cleaned it. On his lap, your legs trembling, you watch while his hand falls limp off the side of the bed, and his chest slowly stops heaving. 

“Oh,” He breathes out eventually, “I think I could get used to that.”

“You can get used to anything.” You say, trying to mimic the level tone that comes out of his helmet. When you laugh at your own teasing, he groans and puts a hand on your stomach like he’s going to push you off, but it just sits there. You stand up when the strain of kneeling like this becomes too much, slowly pulling off of him even though you wish you could stay. You’re about to go to the refresher to wash without thinking, but stop when you remember the child is just behind the door. “Do you think he’s still sleeping?” You’re whispering even though it won’t make a difference now, but behind the door everything is quiet.

Din shrugs from where he’s still laying down, but tucks himself back into his pants and pulls them up, and comes to stand with you by the door, listening. Everything is quiet behind it, so he pushes the button and the door swishes open. Still sleeping, curled up on their side now and mostly obscured by the blanket, the child doesn’t react. You let out a breath you didn’t know you had been holding, while Din moves the cradle out of the room so you can wash. 

While you do, he goes back to the bed and lays down on his side, leaving just enough room for you to fit next to him. When you come back out, dressed in your clothes now, the sound of his breathing makes it clear he’s fallen asleep. Whether it’s some deep instinct, or just a product of his chronic under-resting, it’s no less comforting to see than it had been the other day. Din sleeping and happy; the child sleeping and happy. You didn't know them a month ago, but now they're most of what you think about. 

Instead of crawling in to the bed next to him and risk waking him up, you’re feeling as restless now as you had been before Din came in. Between the pod and Din’s armor, there’s not even enough space to pace or sit on the floor in here. Your earlier behavior is still making you feel foolish, especially now that you’re the only one awake except and no one else in the room is going to contradict the feeling. Walking as quietly across the space as you can, you open the door to the hallway and let it fall shut behind you. A few steps down the hallway, you realize you forgot your shoes again, but don’t want to risk going back for them. Maybe Din wasn’t sleeping at all, maybe he just trusts you enough to not stop you from leaving, but you don’t want to wake him up if he’s actually getting some rest. 

In the hallway, there’s much more space to explore than in the ship. The door across from your is open, and you can see Din’s other clothes as well as his rifle sitting on the equally small bed. For lack of anything better to do, and feeling like this burst of free-spirited wandering might disappear at any moment, you walk the way you had come from originally, being careful to not make any turns you won’t be able to remember later when you want to return. 

Most of the doors you pass are closed, but some aren’t, and the few Mandos you see don’t look up when you pass. None of them are ones you recognize, but you watch closely in case Antenna-head appears, worried he’ll come from behind you and cut off your escape. You’re really looking for Fur-cape, want to apologize for your earlier behavior, but she’s no where to be found. Eventually you come to the same staircase you had sat at earlier and descend in to the cooler air, thinking about turning back soon. It’s the most exploring you’ve ever done on your own, but the novelty is beginning to wear off. If Din’s still in the bed when you return, you think you’ll be able to sleep now. 

The smell of underground water reaches you again, though, and pulls you on, curious. It doesn’t take walking much further from the stairs to find the source. As you pass by, a door to your left opens automatically when you get close, startling you. This one doesn’t lead to living quarters or a communal room, instead it opens up in to a large domed space, where the vent lights have been replaced by hanging bulbs strung along the ceiling. Because of the way the domed roof lifts up in the center of the room, that area is darker than the space around it. Most of the room is taken up by a large, misshapen pool of water that looks like it came to be naturally. The lip of the pool stands many feet above the actual water, as though it was once much higher, and you can’t see any running source feeding in to it. Around the pool on all sides is nothing but a narrow strip of floor sticking out from the wall. Sitting on the floor, feet dangling over the edge without coming close to touching the water, is Fur-cape. You didn’t notice her as you looked around the open space, and by the time you do, she’s looking at you as well.

You would leave her to her thoughts, this room feels like a place for quiet meditation, but she motions you forward before you can. Sitting beside her, looking down at the pool, the smell of earth and water intensifies. As soon as you start to apologize for earlier, she holds up her hand and you fall silent. 

“Many years ago, as a unified planet, Mandalore was strong.” She says, looking forward. Maybe starting conversations in the middle is a trait of the clan, you think. “Then came civil war, and the Empire, and now, we are a shadow of our former selves.” 

“I didn’t know any of that.” It’s true. Most of what you knew of them were from stories told to you as a child. In the time you had known Din, he never spoke about Mandalore or his upbringing. “When I young I heard stories about your kind, but they were legends, nothing like that.”

“There are so many beings, with so many troubles, in the galaxy. Who can expect to know of them all.” She replies. Then, after a pause you’re not sure how to fill, “Din is worried about you. I think, if he had his way, he would drop you both on a planet somewhere far away. To keep you safe.”

“I don’t think there’s a planet far enough away to keep us safe.” If the Empire kept coming after the child, and your bracelet kept broadcasting your former employment to anyone that knew a thing or two about the galaxy, where would there be to run?

“He knows this too, and so he worries.”

“He said that a droid could get my bracelet off, and, if the Empire really is weak now, then maybe…” But you trail off, not sure what might happen at all. She just nods and doesn’t answer. In trying to find something else to say, you remember that she had been talking about the clan and her people. “I want to help you, if I can.” But the words must sound so ridiculous to her, coming from you.

She turns her helmet towards you, and, it’s surprising, but looking at the dark plates in front of her eyes is nothing like looking at Din’s. Two completely separate entities, working for the same thing. A real family. “I feel, that your presence in the clan will help, but only time will tell.” The following silence is a comfortable one, but eventually, she stands up. It takes her none of the extra maneuvering you have to do to pull yourself up from the ledge. 

“What happened to the water here?” You ask when you’re standing, but you think you already know.

“The people who were here before must have used it. Too much, too fast, and now it must replenish. If it can.” She says. You both look down over the edge at the depleted pool, thinking your own thoughts.

She walks back to the room with you, and, along the way, asks about the child. Din must have filled her in on his theories, but when she asks, you admit you haven’t seen anything conclusive but trust him when he says he has. She asks if you’ve heard of anything like that before, but, outside of some species displaying unique and inherent abilities, you haven’t. You’ve just reached the door when she holds out her hand to stop you from opening it. 

“Are you certain, that you would risk your life to aid us?” She asks. Just like with Din, it’s surprising that she would place so much value on you. You think of all those Mandos in the room, the foundlings, the whole clan that could benefit if those storm troopers had made even a single mention of their destination. Weighed against your own life, the difference between the two feels laughable, but you don’t tell her that. 

“I lost my family so long ago.” You say instead. “If I have a chance to help that child keep his, then I’ll do whatever it takes.”

Satisfied with your answer, she leaves and you go back inside the room. Din has rolled onto his back and is taking up the entire bed now, but he scoots over, mostly willing, when you climb in next to him.

“Where did you go?” He asks sleepily.

“Nowhere. Just looking around.” You find a perfect spot under one of his arms and with your back pressed against his chest. He’s pushed the blankets to the floor and you leave them there, plenty warm against his body. 

“Did you find what you were looking for?”

You don’t answer, he doesn’t wait up for one anyways, but when you do finally fall asleep against him, you’re thinking about family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, so sorry to make an unsolicited recommendation, but, since the Mandalorian is over for now, I cannot overstate how much I recommend Charlie Chaplin's movie "The Kid", where the tramp adopts an orphan boy and has to fight for the right to raise him. All the same single dad vibes as the Mandalorian, hella cinematic parallels, possibly the greatest movie ever made, and available for free on youtube because it's like 100 years old.   
> Anyways, thank you again for reading!! Have I told you how much fun writing this and sharing it with you has been?? Because it has!


	5. The Road to Shambala

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here it is! The Conclusion! In which things happen and plots are wrapped up and the story line comes to a close :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've updated the tags a bit for the new chapter some please give them a quick glance if you haven't already!

Chapter 5

Life continues in your new home, but not like before. You learn new things, and the child grows, emotionally if not physically, in tiny ways perceptible only to you and Din. The planet gives no indication of changing seasons, but at night, you stand just outside the entry to the tunnels holding the child and looking out at the stars while Mandalorians come and go. You watch them do side deals with people savvy enough to find this place, or stand and talk to them if you feel like it. Every day, the stock of weapons and explosives in the communal room expands, until even the table is covered in racks of ammunition and rifles stacked butt-to-barrel. Enough for the whole clan and then some.

After a month, it's clear that this hideout is not suitable for the number of people occupying it. Mandos have been going out in one’s and two’s, hunting down rumors on their own since the first discussion, and Antenna-head, whether as penance for his disruption or because he’s the best suited for the job, is sent to locate a technician droid. There’s too much anger and hatred for the Empire in the clan, and those like Din, who are reluctant to engage in war over the Great Purge, are electing to sit back and see what happens before objecting again.

Today, Din is walking the hallway outside your room. The sound of his boots on the floor grows more defined until you can see him pass by the open doorway, then fades again. After a minute, you’ll hear him stop, and then the sound will get louder again, you’ll see him walk by, and the pattern will start all over again. He hasn’t left the compound for more than a few hours since you’ve arrived, and the lack of anything specific to do has been wearing his patience down more and more. He’s been pacing ever since Fur-cape came to the room earlier, as stoic and put-together in the early hours as at any other time, and explained a suitable droid had been located and would be brought back today. 

The child and you are relaxing on the bed, using a portable datapad to continue some embarrassingly slow attempts you’ve made to learn Mando’a. Even as you sit there, repeating the words over and over, they makes no attempts to copy you; either incapable or unwilling to speak yet. Still, at the pace you’re going, they might yet master the language before you. 

Din’s pacing is doing nothing to settle your nerves. It seems much more likely the droid will accidentally shock you a few times – as earlier, unsuccessful attempts had – than outright kill you, but just the possibility is enough to unsettle your stomach. Every so often, you find your feet rubbing worriedly together against the mattress pad, and have to force yourself to stop. The child is so sensitive, and you’ve already caught them frowning more than once as Din works out his excess energy just outside the room. 

Time passes more slowly than it would any other day, waiting for her to reappear, but eventually she does, and Din finally stops pacing. The room is a tight fit, even when she sits at the desk and Din moves out of the way as far as he can, when Antenna-head comes in with a droid rolling behind him silently. It’s short and cylindrical with a domed head, and the paint, weathered and scratched with age, might have once been yellow. It gives out a small beep and rolls up to the bed as Antenna-head closes the door to the room. Even with the child next to you, and Din at the foot of the bed, nothing about the situation feels comfortable. You had agreed to this though, and there’s no turning back now.

Fur-cape welcomes the Mando back and asks some technical questions about the droid. For almost a month, he had searched for the right droid, chasing leads and visiting every unsavory business he could until he found an auction where establishments like the one Din found you at sold off their old equipment in favor of upgrades. Antenna-head holds his hand out when he’s finished speaking, and Din takes it, holds it for a moment, and they both step apart again. Bad blood set aside, if not forgotten.

“Are you still certain you want to attempt this.” Fur-cape asks while beside you the child looks suspiciously at the droid. You wish she wouldn’t, have nothing brave or noble to say, and all you really want is to be done with the whole ordeal one way or another. 

“Yes, I’m sure.” You answer though, for her benefit as well as Din's, who's standing stiffly with his arms crossed and watching the droid.

Given its instructions, the droid beeps again in a light tone. A thin metal probe extends from its middle-section, and you hold your arm out so it can connect to whatever mechanics are hidden inside the bracelet. Tiny, metal disks whir where the probe connects to the droid while Antenna-head shifts on his feet behind it, and the child pulls on some of your hair from their place on the bed.  
Despite the tension you’re feeling, when the probe finally connects to the bracelet, nothing happens at first. The droid beeps questioningly, and Fur-cape instructs it to pull up surveillance data. Another whir, and a flickering blue hologram appears just above your wrist. In the center is you, rendered by shimmering graphics in real-time, and around the tiny you are three Mandos, the bed, the desk, and the child, so small it’s difficult to make out any of their features. The entire room is visible in the projection, and, when you raise your other hand off your lap, the little image of you copies the action with a small delay. Tiny-Din stands with his arms crossed at the end of the bed and watches, motionless. 

Fur-cape tells the droid to go back, and you all watch as the hologram shows you living in reverse, the past month reduced to minutes. You care for the child, sleep with and without Din, wash, eat, practice shooting blasters, silently struggle with your Mando’a lessons, and wander the halls without a purpose. It’s impossible not to blush seeing your daily life exposed like this, but the quick speed makes the ordeal easier. For a moment, you appear to be dressing Din, putting his armor back on piece-by-piece, instead of taking it off, but then, that too is gone. If Din is also embarrassed by what the video shows, he doesn’t say it, doesn’t say anything, just stands there silently like the rest of the room, and there’s nothing to do but sit still and watch it all flash by. 

Next comes your walk through the city, waking up alone on the ship, falling asleep together in the cot. Watching events that occurred while you were sleeping is eerie enough, and you look away before you have to see what came before it. Your nightmares of blasters, beeping, black boxes, and the prolonged torture of not being able to raise your arm fast enough, have only just started fading. Seeing the gunman like this, walking and talking in the moments before you killed him, is unthinkable. The child is still holding your hair as you turn around to face them, and when they see you looking, hold it out to you like a gift. You can’t take it from them, don’t want any movement to disrupt the process happening in front of you, but feign a look of happy surprise for their benefit and mouth the words ‘thank you’. 

When you turn back, the holo is showing you in the past, on your knees while Din stands above you with his hands linked behind his helmet, and your head bobs against his hips. If you were blushing before, then there's no word for the way heat rushes to your face now. It would almost be a relief if Antenna-head would say something rude, anything but the complete silence of the Mandos standing above you, but none of them speak, move, or make any noise at all, and the image soon changes. 

It’s like watching a different person, seeing the way you startled, hid, or otherwise avoided Din the first few weeks on the ship. Then the video makes it back to the night you had fled your previous life with Din, and your first meeting with the child. Just as the holographic figure of you is leaving the bed to return to her window before her first meeting with a Mandalorian, Din tells the droid to stop. When the image flickers and pauses suddenly, it’s like being pulled out of dream. 

Now that the projection has paused, you have time to think about everything, to hear yourself breathing hard, and feel the heat of the crowded room. With so many people inside, the floor lights seem much darker than usual, and the brightest thing in the room is the blue hologram. Din finally moves, uncrosses his arms and squats down next to the droid so that his helmet is eye level with you, and the two of you look at each other for a moment. 

“You don’t have to watch this part.” He says quietly while the rest of the room waits, “I won’t watch.” He continues, “Just look at me.”

It seems unfair, somehow, to everyone else in the room if you were to look away now, when whatever came next was the reason you had all gathered here. After all, you were the one who had lived these moments before, why shouldn’t you have to watch them all over again? But just seeing some of the best moments of your life scroll by had been difficult enough in these cramped quarters with the others watching, maybe judging. What would seeing the things that came before, things that felt so blessedly far away now, be like?

Now that Din has offered though, and no one else brings up any objections, the idea is too tempting. You nod, not looking away from him and try to convey gratitude with your eyes while he takes the child off the bed, into his arms, and holds up one of his gloved hands to block the images from their view too. To your right, Fur-cape’s calm voice tells the droid to keep going. 

It’s easy not to think about what’s going on just in front of you when you’re staring at Din like this. You don’t look away, try not to blink, and his helmet doesn’t move an inch as he looks at you. Trusting the other Mandos is obvious, they aren’t interested in anything other than what the Storm Troopers said, and have no reason to give a damn about what happened to you before you came here, but it still feels as though you’re asking a lot. A lot from them to watch without comment and continue to live with you after seeing the truth about who you were, and a lot from yourself to be so exposed with no control over what the video is showing them. No one in the room speaks, the droid and the child stay silent too, and you can see blue lights reflecting off the side of Din’s helmet but they’re too distorted to make anything out. 

After a few minutes of this, having an intimate, silent conversation with Din in a way you doubt will ever be replicated, Fur-cape finally tells the droid to stop, play it forward at regular speed, and turn the sound on. You and Din turn back to watch the video with everyone else. Din stands up again and moves back a few steps, but doesn’t take his hand from in front of the child’s eyes, ignoring their attempts to push him away. 

The hologram now shows you on the bed again, in a dress you have no memories of, while three Storm Troopers undress in your old room, pulling their armor off and tossing it carelessly into the same spot the pod with the child would one day occupy. The small, blue, past version of you looks to the side, towards the window, while the troopers joke among themselves, flex as they take their shirts off, and argue about who will have you first. In the present, your arm is shaking a little, and you bring your other hand up to steady it. Whatever happens next on this video is what Antenna-head spent a month finding this droid for, and even if you hadn’t promised that you would help, it’s doubtful he would let you stop before he heard about the beskar, one way or another. You had promised though, and that promise makes watching slightly easier to bear, and the thought that it can help the child, help Din, gets you through the rest.

The scene continues, uninteresting, for a few minutes until, just as you remembered, the troopers start arguing about the job. While one takes off his pants and moves you roughly on the bed until he’s satisfied with the position, the other two talk to each other. 

“Half the galaxy is out for our heads,” Says a dark-haired one in a voice that sounds tiny through the droid’s speakers, “I say we dump the cargo for credits, ditch the suits, and disappear.”

“Are you crazy?” The other one replies as he leans against the wall and pulls his boots off with a grunt. “I know exactly what they do to deserters. And don’t think that just because things are bad right now, they’ll let you go with the cargo. We’re taking it to the drop point. No exceptions.” 

“Deserters,” The dark-haired one says with a scoff, “What’s to desert? Boss is dead, everyone knows it, and now they have us running around doing shit they could have hired droids for. We’re sitting on a damn gold-mine. Why shouldn’t we take some for ourselves?”

The other trooper pushes him roughly and tells him to shut the fuck up about it or it’ll go in the report. After that, the conversation changes tone, the dark-haired trooper sulks but doesn’t continue, and they talk about an earlier incident with another soldier on the frigate you have no context for. Now that you’re watching it, the memory of that night is coming back, and you know they won’t pick up the conversation again for some time.

Watching this one encounter in real-time takes longer than zipping past the months that came after, and you’re beginning to feel like it will never end. The troopers are irritated, barking at each other, and you, at every chance, but still, it’s not representative of the worst things you experienced at that place. Even so, you look over to make sure Din’s hand stays in front of the child’s eyes, as the tiny blue trooper in the projection puts his hands on your throat and squeezes. When you try to pull his hands off, he slaps you for struggling with a smack that can be heard clearly now through the speakers. The droid in front of you, at least, looks completely unfazed by the video it’s extracting, but you’re careful not to look up, afraid you might meet Antenna-head’s gaze. When it’s the bootless trooper’s turn on the bed, the one who just finished starts talking about the job again as he pulls up his pants. 

“I’m with you,” he says to the dark-haired trooper. “I’d rather buy a home on Nal Hutta than fly all the way out to this shit-hole.”

“Middle of nowhere.” The other one agrees, muttering.

“And did you see that beskar? Fucking prime.” The first one continues, “Might find myself a Mando and get them to make me a few pieces. Think I’d look alright in chrome.”

“You couldn’t even lift it.” The trooper on the bed pipes up, out of breath, and all three of them laugh. Still nothing, ‘middle of nowhere’ is less than helpful, but the dark-haired trooper stops laughing first and continues to sulk. 

“A rebel base, too. Bet it’s full of ghosts and shit. I heard it’s so cold there they had to eat each other to survive.” He says, talking so quietly now the four of you lean in to hear better.

“That’s a fucking lie,” Says the trooper next to him. “We took out that base in the war. Boss really wanted whatever was inside.” He trails off with a shrug as though he’s remembering something unpleasant. 

Done now, the third trooper pulls himself off the bed, pulls his pants back up, and spits on the pillow near your face before saying, “Hoth, Nal Hutta, fucking Naboo for all I care, you lazy assholes will follow orders, or I’ll blow your brains out myself. Probably give me a medal for it too.”

“Wait, stop.” Says Antenna-head above you. It’s the first time he’s spoken since the video started, and the sound startles you, causing your arm to pull a little at the probe and make the droid beep. “Did he say Hoth?”

“That’s what it sounded like.” Din answers. Antenna-head opens a cover on his wrist guard and exposes the keypad below while the droid holds the flickering image still. On Antenna-head’s wrist, an image of a planet appears, and he continues typing on the keypad until it zooms in. 

“Rebel base. Middle of Nowhere. Cold as shit.” He mumbles to himself. After a moment, the planet is replaced with a flickering aerial photo showing a snowy glacier. Ridges in the snow and strange dunes scattered about have a man-made feel to them as though a compound was buried somewhere below. Din and Fur-cape both lean forward for a better look. “Tracked someone there years ago,” He continues while they look at the holo on his wrist guard. “Mechanical graveyard now. This has to be the place.”

Weeks of nagging worry, that you had remembered wrong and nothing would come of this, disappears as the others in the room discuss the new information. When they decide it’s almost certainly the place where, at the very least, these troopers had been heading, the relief is so intense, it sweeps through you like a physical sensation. You tell the droid to shut off the video, not wanting to watch another second of it, and it boops and complies. The video vanishes, and you hope that neither you, nor anyone else, will ever have to see another second of it. 

After some more discussion, Antenna-head says he’s going to spread the word and moves to leave the room. Glancing up to watch him go, you’re surprised to see he’s looking at you too, just for a second, then the door closes and he’s gone. As soon as he leaves, Din turns to address the droid. 

“Can you safely remove the bracelet?” He asks. 

The droid beeps an answer, and Fur-cape says it thinks it can. Din nods and tells it to do so, lowering his hand in front of the child and setting them back down on the bed. Mechanics inside the droid whir noisily, as though it could use a tune-up, and the first time it attempts twisting the probe, sparks shoot out from the bracelet. It sends the same numb sensation through your arm as when you had hit your elbow wrong on Din’s armor, but there’s no pain. Din jerks forward to put a stop to it, but you tell him to wait before he can. 

“It didn’t hurt. Just give it a second.” You’re anxious to at least try and be rid of the bracelet, especially now that you’ve seen even a tiny portion of the videos it holds. “It’s okay,” you say to the droid, “Try again.”

With a few more beeping noises, it tries twisting the probe again. This time, another hologram pops up, but instead of an image, it’s a screen, displaying what looks like text in a language you don’t recognize. The text flies by as the droid searches for something, and finally comes to a stop as it appears to make several selections. You’re expecting more sparks, trying very hard not to imagine dying full of electricity and pain, as the text continues along the screen. Din isn’t helping your nerves, standing just to the left of the droid, tense, as though he’s going to reach out and snap the probe off at any second. 

He almost does, too, when another wave of sparks shoots up your arm, painfully this time, but before he can, the mechanism holding the spheres together finally gives out. They all fall to the floor separately, with little clinks, and the sparks disappear immediately, taking the pain with them. Din looks down at where they fell, and you can see his body relax at the same time yours does. 

No longer connected to the bracelet or the probe, you lay back on the bed, arm finally free to rest, and laugh. It’s thrilling, a success, everything done and behind you, and you made it through. The sound of your laughter is too loud for the room, but you can’t stop, and soon the kid joins in too. 

Fur-cape gathers up the spheres from the floor and tucks them into her armor somewhere. She can do whatever she wants with them for all you care, and you watch from the bed as she places a hand on Din’s shoulder for a moment then leads the droid out of the room without a word. As soon as she’s gone, Din gets down on his knees next to you, lays his helmet against your thigh, and you bring your hand down to rest on it while the laughter slowly fades away. 

“I told you. Nothing to worry about.” You say. The implant must still be in your wrist, but with nothing to set it off, it seems like something to worry about another time. 

“Mmph.” He replies, not moving. The child can tell you’re happy, and that makes them happy too. Leaning back has put you at almost head level with them, and you stare into their wide, round eyes, smiling, while the three of you just relax for a little while. 

Eventually, Din pulls himself up, and you follow his lead. Outside the room, word has spread fast, and the other Mandos are all moving with a purpose now. The weapons are taken from the rooms much faster than they had accumulated, and Din spends the next few hours moving crates of explosives, blasters, and ammo onto his ship while the others do the same with their own ships. You and the child stay out of the way, and occasionally pass messages between the Mandos as they come and go. 

There’s no indication, besides your own internal clock, of the actual time when you’re down below, but once the entire covert has been packed – nothing but the furniture left behind – and you follow Din outside, the child safely tucked into their pod, the city is covered in the cool blue light of dawn. Almost none of the locals are out, and everything is quiet as the two of you walk back to the ship. The only things you own, the blankets from the ship and the datapad you’ve been learning on, are tucked safely in your arms, and your boots feel more comfortable on your feet for this walk than the first time you had worn them. 

“What’s going to happen now?” You ask, feeling a little shell-shocked by how fast the familiar rooms and hallways had been abandoned. 

“We’ll fly to Hoth together, scout the place out, and decide what to do from there.” He says with a shrug.

“What if there’s too many soldiers there, or nothing at all?”

“Then we’ll deal with it.” He says, but doesn’t elaborate. While you walk, you roll up your sleeve to admire your now bare wrist, turning it in the early morning light to see all the different angles. No stranger will ever be able to make assumptions about you again, at least not because of that, and you don’t think looking at your wrist like this will ever get old. If Din notices what you’re doing, he doesn’t mention it or make any attempt to stop you.

Back at the ship, other Mandos, many with their own ships parked nearby, have gathered near the Razor Crest. Din takes the items from your arms and brings the child’s pod with him up the ramp. A little further down, standing next to a ship of her own, Fur-cape spots you and raises her hand. You wave back and walk over to where she’s standing, sand shifting below your feet. 

“I wanted to thank you, for your bravery earlier.” She says, but you don’t feel brave, or accomplished, or like anything more than you had been before leaving your previous life behind.

“What if those troopers were wrong, or lying, and there’s nothing there?” You’re looking up at the light blue sky as you talk, and are taken by surprise when she puts a hand on your shoulder. 

“You worry too much. The universe is very large, but things like this seldom happen without reason.” She says, gesturing to all the Mandos gathered around. If any of the locals did look out their windows, they would probably conclude this was a good morning to stay inside.

Before you can think of an answer, Din reappears on the ship ramp and waves you over. You thank Fur-cape, though you aren’t entirely sure what for, and she tells you to have a safe journey as she enters her own ship. 

Inside the Razor Crest, several boxes of explosive charges and ammunition have been stacked on the lower deck. The frozen gunman has been removed, and you have no idea what Din might have done with him, but you’re glad he’s gone. Din and the child wait for you in the cockpit while, over the comms systems, the Mandos chatter and coordinate. By the time the windows are full of stars, and Din has set the autopilot, everything has fallen silent. The three of you are finally alone again, and being in the ship now feels more like home than the tunnels you’re leaving behind. 

The three of you spend the flight easily in each other company. There’s little need to talk now that you’re so used to each other’s routines and habits, and, between the two of you, the child has more than enough attention. The flight is long, you can understand why everyone has been saying ‘middle of nowhere’, and it gives you plenty of time to eat and rest. You probably shouldn’t sleep with the child beside you, not when Din is just above and could watch them if you asked, but the emotional toll of your earlier morning makes you unwilling to part with them. 

When you wake up, feeling more like you had napped than properly slept, they are still sleeping and curled among the blankets by your head. You leave them there for now and pull yourself out of the bed as quietly as possible, trying to imagine Din doing the same for you except with the extra weight of his armor. He’s still in the cockpit when you climb up, no sign of the system you’re heading towards through the windows, and you stand just behind his chair looking out. When he does turn the chair around, it puts his helmet right at your chest level, and he rests it against you again. 

“I’m…” He trails off, still leaning against you, and leaves plenty of time for you to think about what he might be, before starting again. “glad that you’re alright.”

“Me too. I thought for sure that droid was going to murder me just for the fun of it.” You joke, but his hand twitches against the arm rest and he doesn’t reply. Instead he says:

“You told me, before, that your parents died in a docking bay accident when you were a child.” You nod slowly, not sure why he’s bringing it up now.

“Yes. I was in the ship, in the hanger, and the airlock…malfunctioned. All I could do was watch.” Your shoulders shrug as though you’re trying to throw off whatever the memory of it is making you feel. “Not that there was much to see.”

“You were all alone after that?” He asks, and you nod. “That must have been hard.” It’s peaceful in here, with the stars, and feels so good to have him close. You don’t think you could ever go back to being alone, wouldn’t survive now that you had experienced the alternative first-hand. He takes his hands off the armrests and brings them to your hips before continuing. “I was never alone, not really. I know how important it is, to help, if you can.”

It’s an opener, the closest he’s ever come to inviting conversation about his own childhood, but the subject is so taboo, you’re afraid to take it. “Help, like with the Child?” you ask instead.

“Yes, like that. And the way you’ve helped.” The thought makes you smile.

“He doesn’t need me. He has the strongest family in the galaxy.” The firm press of his helmet against you only confirms what you’re saying, but Din just lets out a huff and doesn’t reply. With nothing else to say on the matter, your curiosity gets the better of you. “What happened? Why weren’t you alone?”

“My home was attacked, overrun, by droids. There was no escaping, my parents did their best to hide me, but…they couldn’t protect themselves.” He pauses after he says that, to think or remember or maybe he just wants to give you time to put all the puzzle-pieces of his behavior into place, but starts talking again, before you can. “I was alone, but not for long. The Mandalorians came, saved what was left of my home, and took me with them.”

It’s a lot to take in all at once, too much to come up with a reply, but he doesn’t seem to expect one, just stays silent as he stands up and his hands circle around you, move up your back. It happens so slowly at first, you almost don’t notice, but after a moment his helmet comes to your shoulder, his arms tighten around you, and then he’s hugging you. Lightly at first, and then with more pressure, until he’s squeezing you against him and your own arms are coming around his sides to hold him too. When he can’t hold you any tighter and still allow you to breathe, he brings his hands down to your thighs and picks you up. You wrap your legs around his waist and your arms around his neck, still trying to think of something to say.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, because you’re mouth is right next to his helmet and speaking any louder feels like it will interrupt something that’s happening between you, “I shouldn’t have joked like that.”

“It’s fine. I never told you, don’t talk about it.” Armor or not, being held by him like this is the most comfortable you’ve ever felt. It sounds like he’s whispering too, when he says, “I’m glad you asked.”

“I’m glad you asked too, about everything.” And you are. There’s so much he’s done you want to thank him for. “You asked if I was happy, what I wanted, about my name. No one’s ever cared enough to ask.” 

“I know the feeling.” He says, and you vow to ask him every question that pops in to your head from now on, for as long as he’ll let you. After he’s held you for awhile, and the two of you talk about things less serious in the same quiet voices, you expect he’ll have to put you down at some point, but are still a little disappointed when he does. 

By the time the ship comes out of hyperspace, you’re sitting on his lap in the pilot’s chair, legs pressed up against the console because there’s really not enough room for this, but feeling more comfortable than ridiculous as he tries to convince you there’s nothing complicated about flying. The other Mandalorian ships pop up behind you over the next few minutes until it feels like they’ve all gathered, and, while he pulls up the ships scanners on the dash, you get up and stretch before going downstairs. Everything was quiet below, and it has been several hours since you last checked on the child, but you aren’t prepared to find them wide-awake now, climbing on a box of explosives.

“Oh, no!” You lunge for them, more out of guilt than fear of any actual danger, and grab them just as one of their tiny legs hovers over the edge, like they might be considering walking right off. Other than a line of rope, which had definitely been curled on top of the crate before, now hanging over the side, nothing else looks out of place.

“Breakfast,” you promise, to make up for leaving them alone with, frankly, enough weaponry to take out the whole ship, and a few of the ones next to it, “Then story time.”

Food in hand, the two of you sit on the ground just outside the cockpit while Din talks with the other Mandos. Ship scanners are indeed showing life forms, and there’s a concentration of them where the old rebel base should be. Scans also show an ion cannon, though there’s some argument over whether or not it would still be functional, and it’s decided that landing quickly is the best course of action. If there is an Imperial base down there, they must have picked up on the sudden influx of unknown ships above the planet, but so far no attempt at contact, or sign of attack, has been made. The Razor Crest, along with the others, flies down through the planets cloud cover and onto its surface, where a blizzard rages. It’s the first time you’ve seen snow since leaving home, and you pick up the child and go to the windows to show it to them to while Din engages the landing gears. He tries to contact the others, but gets only a fuzzy static each time. Outside, the snow blows sideways and almost obscures the other ships from view. The rebel base must be close, but only the increasingly fuzzy scans give any indication that there might be an underground structure nearby. 

You put on your socks and shoes, and bundle the child up in an extra blanket, then follow Din below deck to the side hatch. The other Mandos are also leaving their ships and gathering, but he asks you to stay close to the ship while he goes out. There’s little choice, you don’t know how much the Mando’s helmets protect them, but your own clothes are no match for the frigid weather. Even if the cold feels good on your skin, the temperature here is the kind that could kill you, if you pushed your luck. The child can’t move much all wrapped up, but you see their eyes poking out of the blanket you’ve wrapped around their ears, watching the familiar shapes through the fields of white. 

In the distance, through the swirling snow, Din waves you back into the ship and then walks towards one of the other ships, so you close the hatch behind you and brush off the powder that’s accumulated from the minute you spent outside. Up in the cockpit, you watch the other ships until Din reappears and walks back towards the Razor Crest. You’re expecting it, but when he says that you’ll have to stay behind with the child while he and the others take the base, it still brings up old feelings of worthlessness that you have to push away while he continues to talk. Scans have shown about forty life-forms inside, presumably troopers, and with the weather the way it is, none of the comms are working. Fur-cape believes the base can be taken now, and the beskar, if there is any, retrieved, before they have a chance to call for backup, but it means moving as soon as possible. 

You don’t want him to go, have gotten used to having him around, safe, with you, but there’s no telling him that as he straps on his rifle, several extra blaster you’ve never seen him use before, and as many of the charges from the crate as he can fit on his belt. 

“You’re going to come back right?” You know as soon as you say it, there’s nothing he could say to make it any more, or less, likely, but you want to hear his answer.

“Yes,” He says as he checks the straps on his shoulder belt. “There’s not many now, but more could come. We’ll move as fast as we can.” He takes the datapad from where he stashed it with the ammo and plays with it for a moment. “Here, you can watch.” 

On the screen a radar grid shows a congregation of dots, three right in the center where you, Din, and the child are standing together, and another two dozen where the others are gathered outside. Every so often the screen refreshes itself with a wavering line, and the dots appear anew. At the far corner of the screen more dots are gathered, spread a little further apart than the ones representing the Mandalorians, and you assume these are the lifeforms gathered in the underground base. 

“Lock up the ship.” He says while you watch the screen, trying to memorize which ones are your friends even though they all look the same. “And if something happens, if I can’t come back, you’ll have to leave.”

“I can’t fly the ship.” And won’t leave without out you, you think, but don’t know how to say it out loud.

“You can. I showed you how to take off, and once you’re in orbit autopilot will take you anywhere you want.” He puts his hands on your shoulders . “Go somewhere far from here, look after him, you’ll be alright. I know you will”

It’s seems like an obvious lie, but you won’t argue about it when he has more important things on his mind, or consider a future where he doesn’t return, for that matter. Not when he’s standing right in front of you now, so real and present. When you don’t answer, or look up from the radar in your hands, he sighs, but lets it go. He puts his hand on the child’s head for a moment and says, “Take care of each other”, and then walks down the ramp and closes it before you have a chance to clear your throat and say goodbye.

You follow his directions and engage the ship’s security when he leaves, but after that, the nerves are too overwhelming for the first few minutes to move. When the Mandos reach the compound and the scattered dots on it’s outskirts start to disappear each time the screen refreshes, you have to set the kid down on Din’s seat and use your other hand to move the screen to the side so you can continue to watch. For now, the Mandos are clearly distinguishable from their enemies, but once they move further inside it will get harder to tell them apart. Every time the screen refreshes your chest clenches, half expecting to see Din’s little dot vanish, but it never does.

You’re so engrossed in it, at first you don’t notice what the ship is trying to tell you until the console gives off a few rapid beeps, and you have to look up to turn the alarm off. When you do manage to look away from the datapad, you see the ship alarm is informing you something else has entered the planet’s atmosphere, and is heading right this way. At first it looks like a ship, then you see it’s actually five ships, grouped in a tight formation and, according to the sensors, they’re less than 60 miles above the planet’s surface. One of them looks tiny on the grid screen of the Razor Crest’s console, and the other four, slightly larger; none are changing course. Your datapad still shows the Mandos tightly grouped, moving through the compound where more than half of the spread out dots have now vanished. 

Fur-cape’s plan had hinged on the enemy’s backup not arriving in time, and they were about to be caught unaware. You try to hail Din immediately, then again, and a third time, but each time you hear only static. You should stay put, or leave the planet, exactly like Din asked, but when you glance down at the child, sitting in a seat they wouldn’t grow into for many years, you know leaving isn’t an option. Staying put is probably the best choice then, there’s no guarantee the Mandos won’t be able to take whoever comes out of the ships as well, but if you do that, you have to accept that the important dots, the child’s family, might start disappearing too. Seconds pass while you think, and now the ships are 40 miles from the surface and dropping. It only took the Mandos minutes to walk to the compound from here. If you run, then maybe you could get to them, warn them, and retreat before they get cornered somewhere and…

So you run, pod following silently behind you like a reminder that this was a very bad idea, that you and the child should be in the ship preparing to take off like Din had told you to, but there was never any leaving without him. You’re too late though, spent too much time preparing and apologizing to the kid while getting them to lay down and please stay still, and by the time you leave, you can already see the ships flying through the snow towards the glacier like tiny smudges. They disappear into the side of the ice wall, and you keep running, ignoring the way the frost is making your fingers tingle numbly and sticking to your hair, turning it white. Your breath comes out in clouds in front of you, and the chilly air burns your lungs, but your jumpsuit keeps you warm enough as you sprint as fast as you can towards the entrance to the compound.

When you get there, the door is open and two dead storm troopers greet you with blaster holes still smoking in their armor. Inside is almost as cold as outside, minus the wind chill and swirling snow, and the walls look as though they’ve been carved straight out of the ice. The place is just how Antenna-head described it, a mechanical graveyard, with long dormant bundles of wires hanging off the wall. In the places where they’ve split, from the time and cold, they lay dead onto the floor, along with the frozen bolts that had once held them in place. The lighting, at least, is new, and illuminates the ice-walls easily, making everything glow light-blue including the mist of your breath as you look down at the datapad and try to decide which way to go. 

In your haste, you didn’t even bring a blaster with you, and the radar screen doesn’t have blueprints of the winding hallways, so you give up trying to orient yourself and just follow the dead storm troopers along the same path the Mandos must have taken. You can see their dots now, don’t have time to count but pray it’s the same number that left the ships, all gathered together. A little further away more dots are appearing, pouring out of nowhere on the screen in numbers that force you to stop looking, before you decide there’s no hope and have to turn back to keep the child safe. The last time you check, the Mandos are outnumbered at least four to one, and so bunched together now it looks like they’ve been cornered, but at least now the new dots have stopped multiplying and started vanishing as Din and the others fight back.

Around another corner, and through a room full of dusty, cracked screens and consoles, where the ceiling has caved in and only the barest effort has been made to restore some of the technology, the radar shows you almost on top of the others. There’s a large door in front of you, and whatever’s happening must be on the other side. Nothing on the radar screen has changed for minutes. Two dozen Mandos clustered together, and, just centimeters apart on the screen, the enemy spread out in ordered lines, maybe a hundred of them. 

There’s no warning your friends now, maybe if you had thought or ran faster – though probably not even then – but you had known that as soon as you saw the ships pulling in. What’s in the pod is strong enough, you desperately hope, to change the tide of the fight, if you’re smart enough to do this right. Ignoring the dead trooper to your left, white helmet staring up at the ceiling, you drop the datapad and press the switch to open the door. 

The room it leads to is huge, bigger than anything else you’ve passed through in the compound. The roof, flat where you’re standing, opens into a dome shape, and the walls are still thick, white ice. Dust, broken droids, and crates are everywhere, as though the place was abandoned in a rush, and stalactites hang dangerously down from the ceiling. Reminders that nature owned this space once and would again one day. To your left is a hanger door opened to the elements so the ships could enter and land in a tight line on that side of the room. Four of them are white, and only a little smaller than the Razor Crest, but one of them is small, black and spherical with two portions sticking out the sides like wings. Storm Troopers have poured out of the four white ships, and stand in a tight formation looking straight ahead. More than a dozen lay dead at their feet, but the other troopers have simply formed around the bodies and there’s no empty space between them. 

Seeing them, armed and alert, like this is so much different than the dots on the screen, but there’s no turning back now. Not when Din and the other Mandos are across the room, ducking behind several overturned crates, among the wires and the dust. Smudged black blaster marks cover the area surrounding them, and as you watch, one of them pops up to try to fire, and the troopers across the room cover the area in their own blaster fire forcing the Mando back down again. Partially sheltered, they still look horribly exposed.

In the center of the troopers are three heavily armed figures in black armor, and, between them, a man in a cloak stands with a sword that looks like it’s been made from the void of space itself, glimmering against the ice as though it’s electrically charged. The man appears to be leading the Imperial troops, and he’s speaking, practically yelling to be heard across the vast room. No one seems to have noticed you yet. From your pocket, you take out a round metal object from Din’s ship and hold it in your hand. You think about everything he’s given up already, and everything you still have to ask from him, as you open the cradle and toss it inside. Then you close it back up, and the metal roof cuts off the sounds coming from inside before you can change you mind.

“Din Djarin.” He calls out, “I was wondering when you would find this place. You’ve led your people in to a trap, and there’s only one way out now. Hand over the asset and I’ll let you walk away with your life.” The asset, he’s talking about the child. The pod hovers behind you, and for a moment, the image of you and Din walking out of here seems like a possibility.

When you had opened the cradle moments ago, it had seemed like a certainty that it would stay beside you, had no plan of just handing it over to the enemy and walking away, but maybe Fur-cape was right after all. Maybe, even in a cold, hard universe like this one, these things do happen for a reason. You’ll bring the cradle to him yourself, hand it over and look right into his eyes while he opens it, if that’s what it takes, but you’re not ambivalent about it anymore. You have things to do with your life and you intend to do them if you get the chance.

“I have the asset here!” You yell out, before you can think too hard about it. Time is running out. You hyper-aware now and can feel every moment pass in your bones, counting down the seconds you have to help your friends, or die trying. Like a month ago, when you found your voice in a room full of Mandalorians you didn’t know, every helmet in the room turns to you as soon as you speak. You don’t look away from the Imperial leader, don’t want to even imagine what Din must be thinking, “I’ll give him to you if you let us leave.”

Across the room, Din shouts out “No!” but when he tries to move towards you, one of the black-armored troopers fires at him and forces him back behind the crates. Din’s outburst lends a credence to your words you don’t think you could have pulled off otherwise, and the leader holds up a closed fist and snaps “Hold fire” at his men. Then he turns to you and says, “No one has to die here. Give me the child, and you all walk away from this.”

You nod, feeling shaky, unprepared for everything that’s happening, “Okay. I’m sending it over,” you call back. It’s hard not to sound eager, but terror is right behind the mental countdown in your mind, and maybe that’s what’s coming through in your unsteady voice. Din watches you from behind the crates, but the troopers keep their weapons up, and he doesn’t try to intervene again as you push the cradle as hard as you can towards the Imperials. The motor takes it about half-way, and the leader waves one of his soldiers over to bring it the rest. The trooper closest to it grabs the pod and starts pushing it right into the center of the enemy, at least a hundred feet from where the Mandos and Din are gathered behind the crates, and in the opposite direction of the actual child who, you hope, is still safe inside their cot in the Razor Crest. Nothing but your old clothes and Din’s blankets for company. 

While the trooper pushes the closed cradle over to the others, the leader keeps his hand up in a fist to signal there should be no wayward fire, and you take the chance to run towards the Mandos, half expecting to feel blaster fire at your back any second. It doesn’t even cross your mind that you could have gone back the way you came, through the door right behind you. Your plan had been to warn, rescue, or get Din back to the ship any way you could, but you never thought it would get this far when you were standing in the ship, trying to decide what to bring, and every second the enemies had been getting closer and closer to the only family you and the child have left. 

The other Mandos are still holding position behind the crates, looking around the edges to watch, but while the Imperials are focused on their prize, Din has stepped out, starring helplessly as the cradle moves further away. You would push him back behind the crates, but don’t have the strength to move him, and don’t want to give anything away, not when this might actually work, by telling him to duck or move or run. As the pod reaches the waiting man across the room, there’s nothing left to do but stand with Din and watch. He’s looking past you, completely focused on the cradle. You remember the way he hugged you earlier and lean back against his chest plate to feel the comforting pressure of his breathing, but he doesn’t put his arms around you now. There’s no chance to say thank you, or ask questions, or any of the hundred other things you wish you could have, now that your time is up and you’ve ended it on the wrong side of a firing line. Everything the two of you have done, will just have to be enough.

Even as you think that, on the other side of the hanger and surrounded by his soldiers, the Imperial leader opens the cradle. As soon as he does, there’s no more need to wonder if if this is going to work. The charge you took from Din’s supplies, blinking red and beeping slowly when you tossed it in to the cradle, is now emitting a steady whine that can be heard as soon as the pod opens. Beneath it are countless identical objects, as many as you could pull from the crates below deck and shove inside, silent but no less explosive than the one that’s about to detonate. 

You barely have time; time to hope it’s going to be enough to win this fight; time to watch the way the troopers try to scatter in panic when they see your homemade bomb; time to appreciate that you’re finally the one who surprised Din, who lets out a sharp gasp just behind you. Without warning, his hands come up to the side of your head, and he squeezes so tightly it feels like your skull might crack under the pressure. In the same moment, the leader, his black sword, the pod, all of the soldiers, ships, and everything else on that side of the room, are engulfed in a flash of yellow and white light. It’s followed instantaneously by more flashes, each one compounding on the others until it’s so bright, it would be blinding if you looked at it for too long. You don’t get a chance though, Din is twisting you both around the second his hands reach your head, trying to get in front of you, but he can’t move fast enough. 

The sound of the explosions hits you an instant after the yellow light appears, and it’s at a decibel you’ve never experienced before. Every wailing alarm, blaster fire, or yell of despair you’ve ever heard was nothing but a gentle whisper compared to this. There’s nothing Din’s gloves, no matter how tightly he squeezes, can do to block it out; they barely muffle it. He doesn’t manage to get in front of you by the time the heat and pressure hit your body, making you feel as though you’re the one on fire, and the two of you are blown back, missing the crates and skidding across the room. 

When it’s all over, there’s no pain, no sound, no up or down. You’re lying on the ground, unable to feel your limbs, let alone use them, and you can see Din just a few feet away but can’t reach out to him. You try just the same, straining and willing your hand to stretch out, but before you manage to move at all, black spots appear in front of your eyes and overwhelm your vision. 

You regain semi-consciousness in the same position, but now you see the other Mandos hovering around Din, helping him pull himself up. Your body moves without your permission until you’re on your back, looking up at Fur-cape’s gold helmet. Everything is still silent around you, and when you try to speak, you can’t hear any words come out. When she lifts you into her arms, the world slips away again and takes you with it. 

Waking up after that takes time, and reality comes back in fits and starts. Sometimes you’ll be able to see the white ceiling above you, and then it will fade away again as you fall back asleep. Even when it does materialize and stay above you, everything still feels dreamlike. Every part of your body feels as though it’s been numbed, and when your head finally, slowly, looks around, you can see white walls, glass windows leading in to more white rooms, and old machinery with cracked, dusty screens. To your right is a medical bed, lifted up, surrounded by monitors and covered in clean, white sheets. You aren’t sure, but you think you might be laying on one too. 

Most importantly, you can see Din at the foot of your bed. He’s facing a Mando you’ve seen around a few times but have never spoken to yourself, and in his arms is the child who’s noticed you’re awake. As they squirm and hold their hands out for you, Din notices too and turns to look. You can tell already, and feel like you know why somewhere in the part of your mind that hasn’t woken up yet, that there’s something off about how quiet everything is. No hum of electricity, no words from Din even though he’s looking at you, not even the soft coo of the child as they reach for you. Your ears feel like they’ve been stuffed with cotton and every time you think you hear something, the sound fades away into a whine and then disappears all together. It’s an overwhelming sensation, somehow claustrophobic, but you push it away as much as you can. Everything else can wait until the child is in your arms again, and you make sure they’re alright with your own two hands. 

Your hands, all the way down to where your jumpsuit would reach your wrists, have been covered in bandages, and it takes an age to get your arms to lift off the bed, but Din finally understands what you want and holds the kid out to you tentatively, like he doesn’t want them to step on you. It doesn’t matter. They can step all over if they want as long as you know they’re alright, and as you watch, they continue to reach out too. Memories of how you got here are coming back slowly, and you have a terrible suspicion you left them alone somewhere, without knowing why you would do something so reckless and stupid. 

With them your arms, everything is better. It even feels better when they hold out a tiny hand and rest it against your collar bone. The numb sensation disappears, but you still don’t feel any pain, nothing but a tingle radiating out from where their hand is. After a few seconds, your ears pop as though you dove too deep underwater. This is followed low-pitched whine that makes you grimace, and then, suddenly, sounds start coming back in to place. The hum of the lights, the child making soft, happy noises, a whistling wind blowing through the building somewhere outside the room you’re in, and a surprised “Oh” you’re pretty sure came from you. Din is still looking at you, and now you can hear him when he says your name.

“What happened?” You ask, unsure if that sensation was part of waking up, or something that the child did, with the magic powers Din has yet to prove they have. 

“Can you hear me?” He asks instead of answering. Your arms don’t feel numb or tired anymore, and when you bring your hand up to rub the child’s ear, the only inconvenience is the bandages.

“Yes. I couldn’t before, but then…” You want him to fill in the blanks, don’t want to sound stupid if that was something that was supposed to happen, just another part of the healing process. 

“I guess we should have tried that from the beginning.” He says, covering your hand with his on the child’s head. He starts pulling of the bandages, gingerly at first, and then with more finesse when he sees there’s nothing wrong with the skin underneath. There’s some on your face too apparently, even though you didn’t feel them at first. He explains while he pulls the gauze off, that the heat from the explosion was enough to give you some minor burns, and then has to go back and explain what explosion he was talking about. As for your eardrums, the damage was bad enough, mechanical implants were being considered. There’s no need to see the medical scans that had been taken just hours ago, the feeling you got when the kid touched you is enough to accept they healed you. Despite the fact that, when you sit up and cradle them in your arms, they look like nothing more miraculous than the galaxy’s most perfect baby. As if that wasn’t enough. Your hearing will be just another thing to thank them for, when they’re old enough to understand. 

You feel as good as you would of having just woken up from a restful night’s sleep. The other Mando asks a few questions, confirms with the one working monitor that you are in fact healthy and well rested now, and leaves with a parting glance at the child. You’re wearing nothing but a loose fitting robe that smells as musty as everything else in this place and was either designed horribly or stained in some unfortunate incident years ago, and Din leaves for a moment to find something better. He comes back with some white, winter clothes he found in the compound that he thinks will fit. Your flight suit, easily the best piece of clothing you ever owned, had protected most of your body, but been too badly damaged by both the explosion and being thrown, along with you, across the floor for another ten feet or so. You try not to take the loss too hard, and the new clothes help. The coat has a fur-lined hood that makes you think of your second-favorite Mando, and is better suited for the frigid weather of this planet anyways. 

Feeling better, Din agree to walk you around. The child, bundled up to the ears with blankets so only their face is visible, has to be carried everywhere now that you destroyed the cradle and the ground is too icy for their feet, but you don’t mind, might never let them go anyways. It’s only been a day since the Mandos had taken the compound, but they have already done more to fortify the place than the Storm Troopers had ever managed, and even now were clearing out the glacial rubble from the room you had collapsed. While you walk through the ice tunnels, some of the Mandos nod or whistle appreciatively at you, others come up to talk. It would be embarrassing if they were complimenting or commending you, but most seem content with some light teasing and the occasional pantomimed explosion you catch out of the corner of your eye. 

The Mandos had made quick work of any troopers not caught up in the explosion and you catch a glimpse of smeared blood every so often through the halls where bodies have been dragged away. In one side room, all of the Storm Trooper armor, as well as several random mechanical parts from around the compound, have been piled up to be stripped and trashed.

Finally, you come to a storage room with a door lock, but the door has been left open. Inside are hundreds, maybe thousands, of grey containers stacked on top of shelves that line the walls and stand several feet away from each other across the whole room. Between two of the shelves is Fur-cape, holding a datapad of her own, or maybe it’s the one you dropped, and looking like she’s taking inventory. Several of the boxes are open at her feet, and you can see gleaming chrome metal in thick bars layered inside. The sight make you want to cry, or laugh in the same you had when your bracelet came off, but filled with the silence of her important work, it seems like too sacred a place to do either.

“It seems I was right after all,” She says when she sees you and Din come in, “Din was fortunate to have found you, we are all fortunate you found us.”

You don’t know what to say, how to put in to words that you’re the fortunate one, but do your best to tell her how glad you are that she’s okay, that everyone’s okay, without overdoing it too much. She stops you after a little bit, and gestures around the room. 

“Look at all you’ve done for your tribe.” She says, and that is too much. Sacred placed or not, you start to cry.

Epilogue

The first days are the worst. When bodies have to be dragged from the compound, and put out into the harsh climate to burn on manufactured pillars, where the fire is always fueled and the fetid smoke never stops. After that, the Mandos go to work, fortifying the base, evenly dividing the spoils, and several leave and return with foundlings once the worst of the gore has been cleaned from the hallways and hanger. You help when you can, learn more in that time than you had in all the years that came before, and come to love each of the foundlings uniquely the longer you spend with them.

Some of the Mandos go back to bounty hunting, some of them leave without explanation and return only when they feel like it. Others, like Din and Fur-cape, make the compound a permanent home. Raising foundlings falls to everyone, but there’s enough beskar to make armor for all the members of the clan, and every new child they bring home with them. And there’s all the time in the world, to ask Din every question you can think of, to hug him until it feels as natural as breathing, to love him, fight with him, fight beside him, and always to thank him. Over and over again until he begs you to stop, but every day you think of something new that makes you want to say it again. The child grows up with a family, one that loves them in an exhausting, all-consuming way, that would leave them spoiled if it wasn’t tempered by the rigors of growing up under watchful eyes of the galaxy’s greatest warriors. 

Some days you walk through the snow until your feet are sore, and can still never get enough of it. You learn Mando’a until you’re proficient, study smithing under Fur-cape, fly to distant and exciting places with Din whenever possible and, when you have spare time, join the Mandos in covering up some of the old markings on the icy walls with symbols inspired by your new family. By the entry, you create a large, if simple, mural of the frozen lake you remember from your childhood home as a reminder to yourself, and others, that home can never be left behind, it’s something you carry inside yourself. It stands unchanged for the rest of your life until, many years after you’re gone, a hand with three fingers takes up a paintbrush and adds the figure of a young woman, wearing nothing but a gold flecked jumper, looking up from the lake at the stars above. 

Traditions change, the clan grows, but through the years, there is always room inside The Way for the wayward and lost, those without families, the ones the galaxy would have otherwise left behind, to find a home, a family, and a purpose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What can I say? I’m a sucker for a happy ending. Thank you all truly, sincerely for the love you’ve given this story, and I really hope you enjoyed it!!!! I’ve had the time of my life writing it!   
> Alright, that's it from me. Thank you again for reading

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!  
> I already know what I'm going to write for the next chapters and hope to get them out soon. So if you see any of your relatives at christmas furiously scribbling in a notebook instead of joining the festivities, that's me!  
> Please leave comments I'd love to know what you think!


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